


Creatures of the Night

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (Almost), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Other, Romance, Slow Burn, Warning: usual vampire violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-07 09:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 25,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18407411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: Vampires are rare, but Paris seems to be dripping with blood nowadays~





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PippinTheRenegade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PippinTheRenegade/gifts), [Feyland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feyland/gifts).



> This has been my stress writing the past few weeks while I was drowning in uni work and wedding prep so it’s a little less polished than my usual work. But it has the approval of kind friends and my dear sister, so quality control has been applied~
> 
> Dedicated to Azura and Jane, let us all end up in a mutual enforcing spiral of vampire content <3
> 
> Content warnings: blood, biting, blood drinking, injury, minor character death, hunting humans, a general lack of morality.

_Paris, 1886_

 

“Hold _still_.” Montparnasse catches Claquesous wrist before he can tug at his collar. The irritation of being interrupted once again pulls his beautiful face into a temporary grimace. There is really no need for Claquesous to be so difficult about this.

“You’re a bore,” Claquesous drawls, pulling his hand free, but refraining from any further physical protest. “Hurry up, will you.”

Montparnasse hisses at him slightly, fangs momentarily glinting in the lamplight, before he smooths down the wings of Claquesous’ collar. He can’t afford to lose his temper now, not when Claquesous has finally agreed to let Montparnasse get him a new suit. His friend’s indifference to fashion is one of the great irritations of Montparnasse’s unlife. Claquesous is handsome enough, if he would only make an effort to dress properly…

“It has something ironic to it,” Claquesous remarks mean-spiritedly, as he allows Montparnasse to help him into the coat of his new three-piece suit. “The way you follow every fashion trend, even when you resent them.”

Montparnasse makes a contemptuous sound, tugging the shoulders of the coat straight. Sack coat is an apt name, he thinks darkly, frock coats are truly  a thing to be mourned. Even so, he replies coolly: “What is there to resent, when I make even these shapeless excuses for jackets look good.”

Claquesous grins at him, unimpressed. “You miss your cravats.”

Montparnasse takes a step back to admire his work. Dressing someone else cannot compare to the pleasure of dressing himself, but there is a certain triumph in it. “More presentable than you’ve looked in decades,” he says.

“I cannot same the say for you,” Claquesous smirks.

Montparnasse glares at him, but when he meets Claquesous’ eyes the look in them is rather more amused than antagonizing.

He looks at Montparnasse a long moment before he speaks again. “Perhaps I also miss your cravats…”

Claquesous reaches out for him so slowly that Montparnasse is temporarily mesmerized by the movement. When his hand closes around the front of his dinner jacket, however, Montparnasse shakes him off.

“I was planning on still attending the theatre,” he says warningly, taking a step back that turns out to be rather slower and more reluctant than it should have.

“And I was _planning_ to go out for a drink, before you dragged me in here to fuss over clothes—” The red shine behind the black of his eyes grows more noticeable for a moment.

Montparnasse does not step away again when Claquesous draws towards him, instead looking him over with a distracted sort of pride. He does look so much better when he’s properly dressed.

“I’m hungry…” Claquesous says, reaching out again, grinning slightly when Montparnasse does nothing to stop him. “But you…you fed yesterday, didn’t you?”

His fingers pluck nonchalantly at Montparnasse’s bow tie.

“You didn’t get me one of those,” he remarks casually, as if he isn’t eyeing Montparnasse’s neck deliberately.

“You wouldn’t have worn it,” Montparnasse retorts, his pale eyes darkening slightly when Claquesous’ other hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Maybe not,” Claquesous hums, pulling the tie away.

Montparnasse can’t quite help the sigh that escapes his lips when he feels Claquesous fingers on his skin, unbuttoning his collar. He did feed yesterday, and quite enough to share and Claquesous looks good enough right now that Montparnasse feels inclined to indulge him a little. He’s not going to let him in on that last part though.

“You get blood on this shirt,” he growls softly, pulling the fabric aside in a sudden display of impatience. “And I shall file down your teeth.”

Claquesous lets out a low, amused laugh, that is quickly cut short as he sinks his teeth into Montparnasse’s now exposed neck. 

Montparnasse groans, tipping forward slightly on the balls of his feet. Claquesous supports his weight easily and bites down a little harder, making Montparnasse bite down on his own lip in return. He nearly closes his eyes when he feels the pressure on Claquesous’ teeth lift.

“Mind—” His breath catches as he can feel Claquesous beginning to drink. “—mind you stop before you get greedy this time.”

Claquesous is already drinking deeper, pressing teasing fingers in the back of Montparnasse’s neck just below the base of his skull, and through the haze of feelings rapidly clouding his mind Montparnasse can just hear him humming against his neck.

Something that sounds _remarkably_ like a sentence ending in the word “ungenerous”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of casual backstory~
> 
> I posted this on tumblr quite a while ago, but it finally fits in a universe.


	2. Chapter 2

_More than 100 years later…_

 

Montparnasse doesn’t even bother to sneak in, he merely pushes open the chain-link fence and slips through. His footsteps are quiet, but he makes no effort to stay clear of the glaring safety lights, meant to make this place more manageable for the security guards.

One of which, Montparnasse notes with faint irritation, just happens to be making his rounds right now.

“Hey, excuse me—”

Montparnasse keeps walking.

“Sir!”

A sneering smile jumps to Montparnasse’s lips. Being well-dressed and confident goes a long way to making your trespassing seem justified. Sadly it’s not enough this time, polite as he may be, the guard is coming over in a hurry.

“Excuse, me,” the man says urgently, catching up to him. “You’re not supposed…to…” His voice trails off as he looks into the set of pale eyes Montparnasse turns towards him.

“Not supposed to  _what_ ,” he says pointedly.

The man blinks. “I…” He shakes his head, suddenly standing purposelessly, arms hanging slackly at his sides.

Montparnasse gives him one, idly appraising look, but he’s not hungry and he’s actually in somewhat of a hurry. “Leave,” he orders, an heavy tone slipping into his voice. “You are  _done_  with your rounds.”

The security guard makes no protest, doesn’t nod, doesn’t give any indication that he has even heard him. He obeys, however, turning away from Montparnasse in a distracted manner and walking off without looking back even once.

Montparnasse does not watch him leave, but continues towards the deserted buildings across the lot. Once he is inside, he no longer knows where to go though. After three empty rooms, Montparnasse is out of patience. Raises both hands to mouth and lets out as sharp a whistle as he can manage, the teeth are a nuisance in that respect. Still, it does the job, there is a low growl in response coming from an adjoining room.

Montparnasse makes his way past the rubble and bundles of plastic tarp and into a small, stuffy room. A pair of yellow eyes lights up in the dark as soon as he opens the door.

“You smell like the angry redhead,” Gueulemer’s rough voice growls, accompanying the eyes.

“Are we really going to argue about taste?” Montparnasse says coolly. He sneers. “You really had to pick this place,  _again_?”

“Fuck off,” Gueulemer snarls, refusing to move from where he’s sitting on the floor.

“So, not quite a full moon _yet_ , is it,” Montparnasse smirks, shamelessly enjoying Gueulemer’s glare. By now he really should have gotten the hang of his lunar cycles, but somehow shit like this still happens every three months or so.

Montparnasse crosses the room and drops down to sit on his heels, making him almost level with Gueulemer, who is still glaring resentfully, but wisely refraining from making the no doubt insulting reply he’d very much like to give. Montparnasse rather enjoys that actually, worth being dragged across town for at least.

“Now,” he says, grinning his teeth bare. “Exactly how badly do you want the clothes I brought you—”

…

It’s not until Gueulemer is fully clothed and they’re making their ways through the dark streets, that he decides to speak in anything other than growls and grunts.

“Something’s different.”

Montparnasse doesn’t really answer, making a vague noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat instead. Gueulemer has been on edge ever since that ragtag pack led by the purebred wolf moved in. They were a nuisance. Montparnasse would have taken offence had it not been for—

“Air smells like blood I don’t know,” Gueul continues stubbornly.

Montparnasse opens his mouth, but he’s interrupted.

“Dead blood.”

He raises a perfect eyebrow. “New vampires?”

Gueulemer gives a sharp shrug, his yellow eyes dulling as the unseen moon removes itself further. “Dead. Old.”

For once Montparnasse spares him the disapproving sneer, his head raised in contemplation. Paris attracts all sorts, but vampires are growing scarce. Very scarce. Gueulemer may not always be trustworthy, his nose can certainly be depended upon. If he says he caught the scent of someone old, chances are these new arrivals are acquaintances.

Which, for a man that has been alive as long as Montparnasse had, means one of two things: that he’ll be dealing with old friends. Or enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first snippet I ever wrote for this universe, based on one of Yosenp's drawyings! The tone of this doesn't quite fit with the rest of the story, but these characters are important to me <3


	3. Chapter 3

Paris is _big_. Almost too big. It’s so full of sensations Fauntleroy feels disoriented the first two days. So many smells, sounds, heartbeats. They hardly know which way to look. Bizarro tried to keep them inside the third day, tired of their endless need for rambling, but they couldn’t bear to be cooped up again with that whole glittering, living, breathing city spread out all around them.

“I trust you to be careful then,” she had told them, from where she was reclining on her sofa. “Don’t get yourself worked up and chase after things.”

And they’re not, honestly, but they can smell something on the night’s breeze and it smells so nearly familiar that they have to find it. It’s the best thing about losing their life, the sensations. Bizarro had taught them from the start that there was no reason to lose the vibrancy of existence when losing your life and Fauntleroy can see and hear and feel and smell _everything_. All the things they never had when they were alive.

So they don’t stop when it grows so dark that even their undead eyes nearly have trouble seeing where they plant their feet. They keep going. The darkness is thick and almost velvety against their skin. Too tangible by far. Fauntleroy knows the darkness, knew it even when they were still alive. Normal darkness is nothing like this. It doesn’t feel like they could wrap it around their shoulders like a cloak. It doesn’t smell like foreign familiarity.

Something, or someone, _made_ this darkness. If Fauntleroy’s heart could still beat it would be thumping high in their chest. Their feet find purchase on a windowsill and with skilful, silent movements they clamber up the side of the building. They want to know about this darkness. They have to know.

It’s nearly a shock when they see the figure leaning against the alley wall below them. Nearly. They’re too curious to be shocked. Because that, they can clearly tell, is a vampire. A vampire that must be as old as Bizarro. He looks it, with his effortless poise and his long dark coat. Maybe that’s why he feels familiar? Because he does… He feels…

Suddenly, the dark head tips back.

Fauntleroy feels rather than sees the two eyes fix upon them. Of course there’d be vampires in Paris. But they weren’t expecting someone…someone so… Him.

The vampire doesn’t move. He stares at them, silently, and before he can decide to disappear on them, Fauntleroy swings down off the drain pipe they were holding on to. Their feet land softly on the ground and suddenly they need to look up to meet the stranger’s eyes. He’s tall, and they landed right in front of him. Fauntleroy stares up at him with undisguised, joyful fascination.

They’re not scared, not anymore, never, but they can tell the only reason this man has not made a move against them yet is because they surprised him, so the first thing that passes their lips is half a lie.

Old habits die hard.

“I thought we were the only ones.”

…

The sound of their voice is a second surprise. It doesn’t quite sound as young as they look. Claquesous is still staring at them and he barely blinks when they speak. The young vampire looks shockingly human, the tint of their skin still warm, their cheeks almost rosy, their curls dyed in blended colours.

They must be very recently turned, or _extremely_ well fed. Possibly both.

He’s honestly too fascinated at the moment to be appropriately concerned at the fact that they actually surprised him. They came out of nowhere, already right above him by the time he senses their presence. And now they’re standing rather too close and speaking to him with a voice that does not match their smooth face, but instead is exactly like the eagerness hidden in their eyes.

Despite himself, Claquesous actually finds himself answering them. “We?”

“My Sire and me.”

Claquesous doesn’t think he has ever heard that word spoken with so much fondness. Respect or resentment he has come to expect of his kind, but _affection_. A youngling then, naïve and loyal. New in Paris, that’s for certain. New and full of artless curiosity.

It’s nearly endearing.

They still haven’t moved away, and as he was leaning against the wall before, it is almost as if they have him backed up against it now. That thought nearly makes him smile and bare his teeth.

“There aren’t many of us,” he replies measuredly. “If you tell me one of your Sire’s names I’ll know if I know them.” He has to know who saw fit to choose a child like this for turning.

But the youngling is not quite so gormless. “If you tell me yours, I can ask her.”

Claquesous slants his head. _Her_. Well, that doesn’t leave a lot of options. He pushes away from the wall and moves sideways, just a little, just enough to have the cold air tugging on his coat again from behind.

The young vampire watches him intently. “I’m Fauntleroy,” they offer freely.

Claquesous blinks. “Fauntleroy,” he repeats.

Perhaps they are only passing through. Led through Paris by their Sire, still clinging to the hand that pulled them out of their life. In that case he will not see them again. Not the bright eyes, nor the inquisitively raised chin, not even the unnaturally colourful tangle of their hair. He’ll just get to keep that name.

His voice sounds uncharacteristically amused when he speaks. “How kind of you to tell me.”

He steps back, into the shadows, and vanishes. He can just hear young Fauntleroy’s huff of indignant surprise before he flits away from them.

A creature like that will not be in Paris long. One way or the other.

…

Fauntleroy can feel the retreat of the darkness like a shawl being snatched away from round their neck. They look up at the light-polluted sky in dissatisfaction and suddenly they realize that they cannot remember the dark vampires face. He was handsome, they remember that, but they can’t seem to recall his features.

And now he’s gone, without so much as a word, leaving them with the sensations of Paris all tangled up in their hair and stuck under their nails.

Slowly, their fingers toying with the bracelet around their fingers, Fauntleroy thoughtfully strolls out of the alley.

Well. That won’t do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest Faun <3


	4. Chapter 4

The moon is full. Bright enough to light the night up like a silver day. It’s nearly enough for Claquesous to remember the moon, nearly enough to make him understand why the wolfish blood boils in Brujon and Gueulemer’s veins. He hisses slightly. He can still smell it. Every damn full moon Brujon ends up injuring himself.

He’s walking across the moonlit rooftops with no particular direction in mind. A moon this bright affects even the fully human. He likes watching them, looking down from above, seeing the clamour and chaos. Humans have poor impulse control at the best of times. A night like this is capable of flooding the streets with trouble.

Just when Claquesous is about to turn, he hesitates.

There’s _barely_ a sound from underneath the roof’s edge, but he heard it. It sounds like rubber soles on brick, like silently grasping fingers, like—

“Hi!”

The corner of Claquesous’ mouth twitches even as his eyes narrow. Fauntleroy looks just like they did last time.

They’re still here. And they managed to find him. Again.

They look very pleased with themselves.

“You’re quiet for someone wearing such loud colours,” he observes calmly.

Fauntleroy slants their head, their eyes darting up as they try to take in his full expression, as if they’re unsure if he meant to insult them. “I like my colours,” they say.

Claquesous hums. He can see that. It’s strange, but even now, with a flicker of suspicion in their eyes, Fauntleroy doesn’t seem afraid of him. No, it’s still curiosity that has the upper hand.

There’s a spark of that in him too.

“Why are you here?”

“You disappeared last time,” they reply, swaying on their feet a little. They’ve never been standing completely still. Clearly, when they’re not dangling from an overhead structure, they must fidget. “And I don’t know your name yet.”

“Hmm.”

There is an odd lilt to some of their words, but it’s only fleeting, very faint. Claquesous finds himself looking at the way their lips form the words and trying to remember where he has heard that pronunciation before… Because he’s heard it before. Of that he is certain.

…

He’s interested in them, that is pleasing. Fauntleroy wishes he would actually answer them, but for now having his attention is enough. They haven’t told Bizarro about him yet, she’s been busy, courting her new meal. Bizarro likes sleeping with people before she bites them. Fauntleroy has never really understood the appeal. They take so long, their methods, and it doesn’t sound at all necessary.

Perhaps they should tell her though. This vampire feels old, powerful. Fauntleroy is pretty sure he actually controlled the darkness somehow last time they saw him. Now, standing in the bright moonlight, he looks different. They can see his features more clearly and they take pains to memorize them. He really is handsome. Dark, sharp features, and something attentive in his posture that feels like it might turn predatory in an instant.

They like that. They like that he feels like that, but is standing there looking at them with that thoughtful, nearly puzzled expression all the same. He should tell them his name, they want to know.

“Are you alone here?” they ask. “In Paris? Are there more of you?”

“More of me?” There’s an amused flicker in the dark of his eyes. “Hardly.”

Fauntleroy takes a step towards him. “But there _are_ more.”

Another curious look. “Perhaps-” He’s still standing with his hands behind his back, his head slightly tilted forward. “-if you tell me how exactly you could see that in my expression, I might tell you a little more...”


	5. Chapter 5

“ _What_ is this?”

Montparnasse looks up in contempt, baring his teeth at Babet as he flings the newspaper against his chest. Two hundred years, and they still haven’t managed to make a paper that doesn’t leave sticky ink smeared on your skin. He lifts the newspaper up between thumb and forefinger and glances at the page.

The uneasiness that creeps up on him as his eyes dart past the words is barely visible on his face, but he still feels it. Any mention of the discovery of bloodless corpses

“It was neither of us,” he sneers at Babet, tossing the newspaper back to him. “So little faith in us, I’m wounded.”

Babet’s eyes fix on Claquesous, who has barely raised an eyebrow, still seated in his chair like a statue. “You don’t look surprised.”

“Am I ever.”

Montparnasse tips his head back, smiling slightly at the ceiling. Claquesous has an extraordinary way of dealing with his primary blood source. Babet threatens to stake him about once a week.

“Are there new fangs in town?” Babet demands, his thin face tense with suspicion. “Gueulemer says—”

“Gueulemer’s been saying that for weeks,” Montparnasse interrupts, but Claquesous has finally sat up straight.

“I think Bizarro is back.”

Montparnasse shuts his mouth abruptly. “La Russie?” he says, eyes narrowed. “Have you seen her?”

Babet is suddenly quiet and Claquesous is clearly taking his time observing his reaction before he looks at Montparnasse and replies reluctantly:

“No… I think I met her fledgling.”

“A new one?” Babet asks sharply.

For some reason Claquesous still looks reluctant to answer, which is very strange. When he doesn’t feel like talking, which is admittedly most of the time, he just tends to leave.

“Seems so, yes.”

“Great,” Montparnasse grunts, trying not to think of how the blond mutt will react when he finds out about the body. Jehan will be cross with him, refuse to talk to him again… “Just what we need around here, badly raised children.”

…

“He’s tall, his eyes are darker than mine, and his skin is sallow, for a brown man. Maybe he doesn’t feed very often…”

Bizarro glances back at Fauntleroy, idly dabbing at the spot on her left shoulder where she just let Faun feed from her with a damp handkerchief. Fauntleroy is currently hanging from one of the bedposts, their legs wrapped firmly around one of the curves in the wood.

“And he wouldn’t tell you his name?”

Fauntleroy shakes their head, making their hair swirl in its upside down position. “He told me he lives here though, always has.”

Bizarro turns around. “Really?” Her lips curl into an involuntary smile. “Did you tell him my name?”

“Of course not,” Fauntleroy says hastily. “I wouldn’t.”

She walks over to the bed, giving a playful tug on their dangling curls. “You should not have told him your name either, lastachka,” she scolds kindly. “Not so easily.”

“I hoped he’d tell me his name in return.”

Bizarro tuts affectionately. Faun is always so eager. “Well, you’re in luck, because I do believe I think I know who you met. He didn’t happen to show off a particular talent for disappearing into the shadow, did he? “

Faun’s eyes grow wide with delight and they let themself slide down, scrambling upright onto their knees on the bed. “Yes! As if he could _wear_ the darkness.”

Bizarro smiles. That’s what she thought. It nearly makes her laugh out loud, imagining him having to deal with her energetic darling.

“In that case, you can skip the introduction. His name is Claquesous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the setup done!


	6. Chapter 6

He never hunts nowadays. It’s been so long he doesn’t even feel the craving anymore. It almost makes it a novelty, having all his senses primed like this.

They aren’t difficult to find. They are a disturbance among familiar sensations. Bright and vibrant, and unsuspecting.

“Evening.”

Fauntleroy whirls around like a startled animal, fingers tensing into claws. They don’t quite relax when they see it’s him, but their eyes widen with something that is far too close to excitement.

“How did you find me?” they ask.

“You’re hard to miss,” he replies casually.

Fauntleroy looks uncommonly pleased with that and Claquesous finds himself having to make an effort to keep his voice level. Their energy has an unnervingly infectious quality.

“That body in Bois de Boulogne, was that you?”

Clearly his tone wasn’t stoic enough, Fauntleroy’s eyes twinkle up at him. “Maybe,” they grin.

He nearly smiles, but he doesn’t allow it. “Stupid of you.”

Their face falls, posture turning defensive. “It’s not like she’ll be missed,” they grumble.

Something long forgotten stirs in the back of Claquesous’ mind at the sight of their pouting lip. He clenches his teeth for a moment before lowering his head to glare at them.

“ _Don’t_ leave bodies lying around.”

Fauntleroy shuts their mouth. With their mouth closed their short fangs are nearly undetectable. Once again they look startlingly human.

“It causes trouble,” Claquesous stubbornly talks over his own thoughts. “Hunt any way you like. But clean up after yourself.”

Their brown eyes gaze up at him sullenly for a long moment, but then there is a flash of teeth again, just the hint of a smile. “I’m going hunting now…” The smile widens. “Why don’t you come with? Keep an eye on me.”

Claquesous stares into nothing with unfocussed eyes for a second. They drained someone on Tuesday and they’re hungry again. Already. It’s like looking in a mirror for the first time in 200 years.

“No,” he says flatly.

They actually look a disappointed.

“Paris’ nights are generous,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height. “But were not alone in the dark. Don’t call attention. Don’t leave our streets littered with corpses.”

“Okay,” they say quietly, plucking at the cuffs of their blue coat.

He looks them over once more. “Goodbye, Fauntleroy.”

He has already turned around, is already retreating into the urban shadows when they answer.

“…bye, Claquesous.”

He does not quite manage to stop the surprised falter in his step and Fauntleroy lets out a soft noise that is very close to a giggle.

“You really are Bizarro’s then.” He turns back around.

Fauntleroy shoots him a shy grin. “Well, you wouldn’t introduce yourself…”

“Mm,” Claquesous hums. “But then you never asked me to.”

They look a little taken aback at that and it’s a look he enjoys just slightly too much. It shouldn’t be amusing to unbalance a youngling like them. They shouldn’t be as intriguing as they are at all. They’re one of Bizarro’s, which means they’ll be fast and flighty. They can barely hold still on their spot, they won’t be able to stay put in Paris long enough for them to matter.

“She told me you’d know,” Fauntleroy offers. “If I told you.”

He focusses on them again, on the cautious expression on their young face. “Did she now.”

“Yes…” They clasp their hands together. “She also said she’d like to visit.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lot's of pov switching in this one, but a werewolf perspective was _sorely_ needed.

It’s like a goddamn bloodsucker tea party.

Gueulemer is grateful the moon is close to new, because this whole thing is putting him on edge. He could go home, of course, but that means not being able to keep an eye on… This. He’s still unsure how to refer to these three. They’re not pack mates, they’re…friends, maybe. In any case, they’re in his life and that means he has to keep an eye out. More importantly, Brujon won’t want to leave, he’s been staring at that Fauntleroy creature for a full five minutes by now. And there’s no way in hell Gueulemer leaving him here.

“What makes them smell different?” Brujon mutters, his back pressed firmly into the battered couch beside Gueulemer.

“Which one,” Gueulemer grunts. He doesn’t trust Bizarro. She smells like old blood, old undeath, but her perfume blends with it perfectly and her face is flawless. Even when she smiles, he barely notices her fangs, even though their whiteness glints against the dark red of her lipstick.

“Faun,” Brujon says eagerly and Gueulemer gives him a sharp look.

He recognizes that expression. If Brujon had been capable of it right now, his ears would have been perked up excitedly. He likes Fauntleroy.

“They’re a bloodsucker,” he mutters warningly, dropping his voice even lower. “One we don’t know yet.”

“They don’t smell like it,” Brujon argues, his eyes still fixed on the frizz of blueish curls where Fauntleroy is leaning their head against Bizarro’s shoulder.

Gueulemer knows what he means, but he also knows Brujon is wrong. “Some vampires are more animalistic than others,” he says, trying to draw Brujon’s attention towards himself. “It’s just their nature. You see how Montparnasse and the woman are? All their pretty ways?”

Parnasse is making an effort, Gueulemer can tell. He usually doesn’t bother looking this beautiful on nights he isn’t going out to feed. But as soon as that Bizarro stepped through the door he put on his prettiest face. Not to please her, not because of the dumb admiration that is making Babet act like such an ass at the moment, but to upstage her. Gueulemer suspects Bizarro of doing the same.

“Yeah,” Brujon grunts.

“That’s their nature. The little one doesn’t do that. Perhaps they’re wilder.”

“Like us?”

Gueulemer glares and Brujon bows his head without averting his eyes. He’s still half a pup.

“Not like us,” he corrects, but as he glances at Fauntleroy, studying the way they’re fidgeting as their Sire talks to the others, he feels just a pang of sympathy. “Maybe a little more than the others.”

Brujon whines softly at the back of his throat and the colourful head turns, two large eyes peeking in his direction over Bizarro’s silk-clad shoulder.

Gueulemer watches Brujon stare back and involuntarily folds his arms across his chest. It’s not right for werewolves to be alone. It’s unnatural. He chose to leave his pack. Brujon never had one to begin with.

…

It’s not that Montparnasse has anything against Bizarro personally, it’s just that he can’t stand her up close. He can’t stand the blood-grown blush on her cheeks, the flawless lines of her make-up, the wealth and fortune from her living life still clinging to her skin.

Babet falling over himself to be courteous to her doesn’t help either. It’s supremely annoying. And Bizarro _keeps_ on talking, in that sugary voice of hers that makes Montparnasse want to fly at her fangs bared.

Come to think of it, Claquesous is far too calm under all of this.

Montparnasse glances at where he’s seated in his usual chair. He’s not looking at Bizarro, barely seems to listen to her, his face showing only a faint, standardized reaction to whatever she is saying. His attention is fixed on her fledgling instead.

Montparnasse eyes the brightly coloured child warily. Fauntleroy looks even younger than he does and the home-dyed colours in their curls seem childish to him. They haven’t said much, clinging to Bizarro all the while, looking at all of them by turns with curious eyes. They don’t take after their Sire, that’s one thing in their favour at least.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d still find you all here,” Bizarro says with a poorly hidden mirth in the blue of her eyes. “Or I would have come to say hello immediately.” She smiles dazzlingly at Babet. “It’s important to have good company.”

Montparnasse makes a genuine effort not to listen to Babet’s attempts at being charming. He locks eyes with Gueulemer, who is still stubbornly staying out of the conversation by sitting in the corner with Brujon. Brujon who is _also_ staring at Fauntleroy. This is getting very annoying.

Perhaps Fauntleroy thinks so too, because they’ve moved to the other side of the couch, slightly away from Bizarro, speaking to Claquesous in a low enough voice that Montparnasse can’t quite hear. Claquesous is listening to them with an uncommon degree of ease and patience.

“Don’t you agree, Montparnasse?”

Montparnasse’s attention snaps back to Bizarro. “Probably not.”

She laughs, her head tipped back just enough to show off her features. “I was only saying it had not occurred to me how isolated a life Faun and I have been living, because of all my travels. Perhaps not the best thing for someone so newly turned.”

She glances over at Fauntleroy, who is by now nearly perched on the far armrest of the couch, fully engrossed in whatever Sous is calmly explaining. Her expression is one of genuine fondness, which is honestly a little unsettling to Montparnasse.

“But you know me, ever the restless socialite.”

Babet answers something flattering and Montparnasse is already tuning out again, when—

“Which is why I thought they might stay with you for a few days!”

Montparnasse freezes and a hush falls over the room as both Claquesous  and Fauntleroy startle out of their conversation.

“Stay here?” Fauntleroy blurts out, but Montparnasse’s jaws have movement again and he’s already protesting.

“ _Why?_ ”

Bizarro smiles at him with brilliant pleasantry. “Because I really need to make a quick trip to Nice, and I haven’t arranged permanent lodgings yet. Besides, as dear Claquesous just pointed out, perhaps it would not be the best thing for Fauntleroy to leave them to fend for themselves just yet.” She grins, suddenly baring her fangs. “Or at any rate, not the best thing for the city of Paris.”

Montparnasse bristles at the suggestion alone. There is no way in _hell_.

“I _can_ look after myself, you know,” Fauntleroy grunts.

“Of course,” Bizarro readily agrees. “But it would be good to learn the ways of Paris from true Parisiens, don’t you think so?”

Fauntleroy looks uncomfortable, shy perhaps, and Montparnasse is pleased with their questioning look at Claquesous. His friend may be disposed to indulge them a little for whatever reason, but there’s no way he will let them into their house. Claquesous is just about the most private person Montparnasse has met in his life and unlife combined.

Claquesous’ face is as neutral as always. “If you’re not going with Bizarro I don’t see why you couldn’t stay here.”

“ _What_ ,” Montparnasse barks and Babet hastily interrupts:

“It’s certainly a possibility.”

Fauntleroy meanwhile, is treating Claquesous to a smile wide enough make their fangs catch the light, which he seems to return with nothing but a rather philosophical expression. Clearly, he has gone just as insane as Babet.

“Gueul?” Montparnasse growls, if going against both Babet and Sous on his almost exclusively futile.

“I don’t live here, why should I care,” Gueulemer snorts, but next to him Brujon has suddenly sat up straight. Gueulemer glances sideways at them. “Better than leaving the kid on their own I guess.”

Fauntleroy looks like they’re going to protest at that, but clearly they’ve thought the better of it in favour of not derailing what _they_ at least seem to consider a delightful idea. At least if that grin on their face is any indication.

“That is incredibly kind of you _all_ ,” Bizarro says emphatically. Her amused eyes rest on Montparnasse for an infuriating moment, before she directs her smile towards Claquesous. “I would consider it a _personal_ favour.” She glances at Babet. “You do have a room for them, I trust?”

Montparnasse opens his mouth and shuts it in bewilderment. Apparently, this is happening. So while Gueulemer argues with Brujon in hushed, growling tones in the corner, and Babet, Fauntleroy and Bizarro talk practicalities with Claquesous for a silent listener, Montparnasse sits back and tries to focus on the one upside of this plan. That Bizarro, at least, will be out of his hair again for a while.

…

“You could have told me you were planning this.”

Bizarro smiles. “I would have if I had known beforehand, dearest. But I hadn’t at all made up my mind yet.”

Fauntleroy hums in acknowledgment, a pleased, excited sound, and Bizarro feels quietly justified in her spur of the moment decision. Fauntleroy has been too much on their own in their life, and their undeath, although she has tried to fill it with everything good and beautiful, has not offered them many friends either. Faun clearly likes Claquesous, looks up to him, and he has been friendlier to them than she has seen him with _anyone_ he didn’t know at least a couple decades. Babet knows a lot, for a human, and can probably teach Faun a thing or two about matters Bizarro simply does not have the patience to bore herself with.

Then there’s the wolfish boys. A little coarse to her taste, but there seems to be no harm in them. Montparnasse tolerates them, so they can’t be too bad.

Yes, Fauntleroy will enjoy themselves here for a while. At the very least they’ll learn something.

And besides, a few days on her own in Nice sounds absolutely divine.


	8. Chapter 8

The second time something crashes loudly on the floor below him Montparnasse loses his patience. Instead of going downstairs, he marches up, to the attic. The door isn’t locked, so he steps in without knocking.

“What the _fuck_ are they doing down there.”

Claquesous doesn’t look up from his book. “Last I checked, hide and seek.”

“It _sounds_ like they’re breaking down the damn living room,” Montparnasse snaps.

His friend carefully turns a page. “That too.”

Montparnasse knows he’s doing it on purpose but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still piss him off. “So _make them knock it off_. I want some goddamn peace and quiet.”

No one has mastered disdainful looks quite like Claquesous has. “Pray tell, why is that my responsibility?”

“Because Gueul isn’t here to control Brujon and _you_ are the one that stumbled across the feral fledgling.”

“Hmm,” Claquesous hums, turning attention back to his book. “Interesting theory.”

Downstairs a muffled sound of laughter mixed with screaming briefly erupts only to be abruptly cut off again.

For fuck’s sake. Montparnasse turns on his heels and marches out of the room. If this is how he’s rewarded for exercising self-control and actually staying home, he wants no part in it.

He knows where to find Jehan on Thursday nights. To hell with the consequences.

…

Claquesous has no intention whatsoever to go downstairs in what sounds like a damn war zone. When he passed by the living room before Gueulemer had just left and Brujon and Fauntleroy were seemingly getting to know one another by playing games that involved an absolutely unnecessary amount of physical contact.

It seems to be quieting down now, though. For a few minutes there is no more crashing or sudden screaming.

At length Claquesous puts his book aside and goes downstairs. It’s strange, noise like that in the house. The closest their reluctantly combined households gets to liveliness is his music clashing with Montparnasse’s tv, and occasionally Babet’s fire alarms.

When he arrives downstairs, he finds that the quiet might not have come about naturally after all. Gueulemer is back. Claquesous halts in the doorway and watches how he leans over the couch where, to Claquesous’ mild surprise, Fauntleroy and Brujon are lying against each other, looking pretty well exhausted.

“You sure managed to rile each other up,” Gueulemer grunts. His back is towards Claquesous but from the way he’s moving he must be reaching out to Brujon, maybe even both of them. “So who won?”

“Four-two to me,” Brujon grins, sitting up, and Claquesous can see some of his wolfish features have come to the surface.

“Because you cheat,” Fauntleroy replies disdainfully. “It was a tie.”

Gueulemer suddenly looks back, relaxing when he sees Claquesous standing in the doorway.

Claquesous nods at him, taking in the fondness on his face with genuine fascination.

“Love the redecorating you’re doing,” Gueulemer grins, his smile managing to be wolfish without his teeth even having to change.

Claquesous raises an eyebrow at the toppled over furniture.

“We’ll clean it up,” Fauntleroy yawns, their curly hair sticking up in all directions.

Brujon’s elbow pokes in their side and they hiss at him. “Speak for yourself.”

 

The room is mostly set to rights when Brujon finally listens to Gueulemer’s prompting to leave. Claquesous watches curiously to the way Brujon and Fauntleroy jostle against each other and Gueulemer’s friendly shoving at their shoulders to get them to get a move on.

“Doesn’t have to be a hunt they, they could just come hang out,” Brujon tries for the third time.

Gueulemer’s eyes narrow, but the expression in his eyes isn’t really disapproving.

“Next month maybe?” There’s something different about Fauntleroy’s posture, their head slightly down, their eyes looking up from behind their hair.

Gueulemer lets out a good-natured growl. “Next month. _Maybe_.”

The happy flurry of movement in response to that is nearly identical in Brujon and Fauntleroy and Claquesous watches it with increasing curiosity. Is Fauntleroy doing this on purpose? Because he is pretty sure they are…

“Right,” Gueulemer says, dragging Brujon towards the door. “You come with me. And you fix your pelt.” He gives a playful tug on one of Fauntleroy’s stray curls.

They bare their teeth at him without any real malice. “Tell me your birthday,” they demand, in the tone of someone who has asked before. “I bet I’m older than you.”

“Pup,” Gueuelemer grins and he looks up to nod at Claquesous. “See you.”

“Bye Sous!” Brujon adds.

He nods back.

Fauntleroy retreats further into the hallway while they get out the door and when it shuts behind them, just as he expected, Claquesous sees their posture change again. They stand upright, seemingly growing a little taller, and the energy in them subsides. But the soft edges stay, and their expression is an endearing soft of content.

They sigh slightly and wander back into the living room.

Claquesous follows them.

“You know it took about a year before Gueulemer would have anything resembling a normal conversation with me,” he says. “Or Montparnasse.”

Fauntleroy smiles mildly. “Maybe you should have tried something different than talk at him or stare silently,” they say, smoothing their hands over their hair, feeling for stray locks.

Claquesous observes them thoughtfully for a moment. “Dealt with werewolves before?” he asks. That would possibly explain how…physical they are, and how easily they seem to connect with them.

But Fauntleroy shakes their head. “There were a couple back—where I came from,” they say, slightly uneasy. “But I only found that out just before I left. No one ever talked about it.”

He nods. That’s generally how werewolf packs survive.

Fauntleroy lowers their hands, some of the wildness smoothed out of their curls, and looks up at him. “Do you trust them because you trust Babet?”

“No,” Claquesous replies slowly. “I don’t take my trust by proxy.”

“But you know them because of Babet,” Fauntleroy presses.

“Yes.”

“Maybe that’s why it was difficult,” they muse. “Gueul and Brujon do everything like that.”

“Like what.”

“By proxy, if you want to call it that.”

Fauntleroy is calmer and more thoughtful than Claquesous has ever seen them and it’s almost frustrating to him that he does not immediately get their meaning.

“Brujon trusts me,” Fauntleroy explains, a flicker of a content smile in their eyes. “So Gueulemer trusts me. If he trusted Brujon and Brujon introduced you, perhaps he expected him to have vouched for him.”

Claquesous thinks back to their first introduction. It hadn’t been very elaborate. He had always suspected Babet had done it mostly out of convenience, so he wouldn’t have to keep his two sets of experiments separate.

Fauntleroy meanwhile has curled up in the nearest chair, still fidgeting a little, but nowhere near as restless as Claquesous is used to seeing them.

“You may have a point,” he hums. If Gueulemer trusted Babet back then, he privately adds. “Or perhaps, you have a natural knack for dealing with dogs.”

Fauntleroy snorts, but grins all the same. “I like them,” they declare.

“Clearly,” Claquesous answers amusedly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Montage time!

“I’m just saying, you could order them online.” Fauntleroy says. They’re sprawled out on the couch on their stomach, just able to reach down enough to scratch through Brujon’s hair where he’s lying on the floor.

Montparnasse frowns. It’s still a little unnerving how well those two get along, but when they’re not playing parkour on the furniture they seem to calm each other down at least. “Hardly a substitute for getting something properly tailored,” he sniffs.

Fauntleroy rolls their eyes. “If it doesn’t fit you send it back.”

He makes a disgruntled sound. But, maybe they have a point. There’s only one tailor in the whole of Paris that he can go to and it is loathsome to be so dependent on one person. Maybe it’s worth a try.

…

“I take it you haven’t heard from Bizarro either.”

Claquesous smirks at Babet. “Does that really surprise you?”

Babet pulls a face, putting away the vacutainer he just filled with Claquesous’ blood. “It shouldn’t.”

“Fauntleroy has though.” Claquesous pulls his sleeve back down. “They text.”

Babet still looks displeased. “So she hasn’t skipped out on us, she just prefers to leave us dealing with her child.”

“They’re not a child.” Claquesous isn’t quite sure when he changed his mind about that himself, but they’re not. Fauntleroy’s energy, their enthusiasm and eagerness, it’s deliberate, conscious. Somehow.

“They’re _young_ ,” Babet says sharply. “And they lack impulse control.”

“They haven’t killed anyone since the last one,” Claquesous says mildly.

Babet sniffs.

“You should tell them,” he says, rising from his seat. “About your experiments. They’ll be interested in it.”

There’s no real reply, just a vague grumble, but Claquesous trusts that will have been enough. Babet loves to talk about his work. And he rarely gets to regale someone new.

…

“So the _pack_ knows about Fauntleroy then,” Claquesous says.

“Yes.” Montparnasse deliberately doesn’t look at him, keeping his eyes on the sky instead.

“Because you told them?” His friends’ tone is neutral, but the question alone is enough to make Montparnasse snarl.

“I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t know already.” He glares at Claquesous, but is surprised to see something like concern on his face rather than mockery.

“Do they know they were the one that left the body?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Don’t know. But I’d say they’re able to put two and two together.”

Claquesous nods.

There is a short silence and Montparnasse wonders what exactly is bothering Sous about this. Probably the possibility of Fauntleroy ending up in a fight with the blonde purebred.

“They won’t do anyting about it,” he grutns. “They know better.”

“Did your daywalker give you their word on that,” Claquesous asks and there’s a comfortingly familiar sneer back in his voice.

Montparnasse relaxes, leaning back on the roof’s edge again. “Fuck you.”

…

Fauntleroy sits on their windowsill, swinging their bare feet in the cool night air. They were going to go out for a drink. They’re hungry again, always hungry, and Bizarro told them not to get too greedy again. But the music started just when they were about to leave and now they don’t want to go.

It’s coming from the attic window above, they’re certain, and it isn’t a recording. It has to be Claquesous.

The drawn out violin tones swirl around, coiling through the air, and Fauntleroy wishes they could picture with any sort of accuracy what Claquesous must look like at this moment. They didn’t know he could play. He’s never said a word about music.

It’s _beautiful_.

He probably doesn’t want people to know. He doesn’t talk about anything he likes, doesn’t talk much at all, really. But…he is playing at an open window right now. They want to see as well as hear, _so_ badly. They want to ask him what the song is. It doesn’t sound like anything they’ve ever heard before.

Fauntleroy looks up, thoughtfully biting their lip. If they wait any longer he might stop…

Slowly, still cautious, Fauntleroy steps up on the windowsill, and pulls themselves up to climb. The rough bricks really aren’t challenge for them and they clamber towards the music with barely a sound. When they reach the window they hesitate, hanging still for a moment before throwing an arm over the window frame and pulling themself into view. The song stops.

Claquesous is standing in the middle of the room and Fauntleroy suddenly realises they’ve never actually seen his room. All they can see now is him though, standing in the vague light coming through the open window, that they are now partially obscuring. Resting on his shoulder is a violin, the bow still raised in his other hand. His eyes are fixed on them intently, almost suspiciously.

He looks like that sometimes. When they ask him a personal question. Or when they do something he wasn’t expecting.

“Can I listen?” they ask, openly. “Please?”

He looks at them for a long moment and then gives a short gesture with his bow, beckoning them inside. A burst of joy thumps in Fauntleroy’s chest and they clamber through the window, ducking their head down to hide their grin.

Claquesous doesn’t say anything, he just waits for them to sit down.

And then he puts the bow to the string again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sixteen year old self has a weakness for vampires who play the violin...it had to happen.


	10. Chapter 10

It seems that whenever something bad happens in Paris, the more lugubrious kind of bad, the sort of thing that has consequences for the nocturnal residents of the city, Babet somehow learns of it immediately. Montparnasse has gotten used to his nervous outbursts, but this one is a little more vicious than usual. It seems a werewolf got attacked.

“I don’t see why you’re taking this out on us,” Fauntleroy protests, with a much calmer demeanour than Montparnasse had expected from them. They flinched when Babet first raised his voice, but now they’re standing their ground with their arms crossed and resolute frown on their face. “Clearly we had nothing to do with it.”

“You will,” Babet snaps. “As soon as someone _else_ decides you had a hand in it.”

“It’ll blow over,” Montparnasse speaks up in a vague attempt to make them both shut up. “It always does.”

Babet glares around the room with all the marks of a man who has the most to lose of his present company. “Well until it does none of you are setting one _foot_ outside this building.” And he marches out of the living room.

Montparnasse watches Babet go with a complacent look on his face, same as Claquesous, but behind him Fauntleroy suddenly bristles with unexpected anger.

“I’m not staying locked in here for however long it takes you to sort this out!”

Babet doesn’t even turn around. “You damn well are.”

Montparnasse steps back and he and Claquesous both watch as Fauntleroy chases after Babet like a hissing cat. Their argument is short but hearing Fauntleroy’s voice raised all the way to a scream is almost startling on his own. Montparnasse can’t quite keep from visibly wincing when Babet’s last command rings out and he hear Fauntleroy storm upstairs. Christ.

He glances at Claquesous, whose expression is not quite blank anymore and wavering somewhere between surprise and faintly impressed.

“You gonna do something about that?” he hums. Because he himself _really_ rather wouldn’t.

Claquesous makes a vague sound. “Possibly.”

Well, good enough.

…

Claquesous doesn’t even bother to check the guest room that Fauntleroy has made into their bedroom. Instead he goes straight to the storage room at the end of the hall on the same floor. The door isn’t closed properly so he doesn’t feel obliged to knock, but he does make sure to open it slowly.

Fauntleroy is sitting amidst the stacked mess of unneeded furniture and boxes, slouching on an old couch, and looking every bit the twenty-one year old they were when they died.

“Good to see you’re still here,” he remarks casually, leaning against the doorpost.

“He has _no_ right to talk to me like that,” Fauntleroy spits, eyes still snapping fire.

“Oh but Bizarro made him promise you’d be safe here,” Claquesous drawls mockingly. “And he couldn’t disappoint the lovely Bizarro, now could he?”

Fauntleroy huffs, but they look at least a little amused by that.

Claquesous takes that as encouragement enough to enter the room, walking through the narrow path between the piled up still that is still accessible. He holds out the bottle of blood he just fetched from the laboratory. “Want some of this?”

It’s amusing to see Fauntleroy’s pupil’s dilate just at the sight of blood, but their expression is wary and rather disdainful. They take the bottle, but as soon as they unscrew the cap they gag.

“It stinks,” they sniff. “Like anticoagulants.” They look up at him with mild horror, maybe even pity. “How can you drink this?”

He looks down on them with an amused expression. They seem almost offended on his behalf. “It’s an acquired taste.”

Faun makes a contemptable sound. They carefully set the bottle aside on the nearest box.

Claquesous watches them thoughtfully. “You still hunt a lot, don’t you.”

“Biz told me to. Drink often, but only a little.” They sound extremely dissatisfied with it.

As well they should, as far as Claquesous is concerned. It’s an insufferable practice. Far more frustrating than drinking inferior product. “And how’s that working out for you?”

They glare at him and he nearly laughs. Fauntleroy look sulky and ill-tempered and suddenly something foreign and fond stirs in his chest.

“When’s the last time you fed?”

They chew on their lip in dissatisfaction. “Couple days ago.”

“And not enough.”

“No,” they grumble. “I was being _good_.”

“Tedious.” He smirks, sitting down on the other edge of the couch. He leans back and looks at them. “Go on then. If you won’t drink bottled, I’ll share with you. If it will prevent you from climbing out the window.”

Faun’s mouth had opened in surprise, but now they shut it abruptly. “I wouldn’t—” They cut themself off with a disgruntled frown.

Claquesous grins. “Don’t do well with being cooped up, do you,” he observes smugly. He can sympathise, but the stress of confinement is mostly imaginary, it can be managed. “It’s easier to deal with when you’re well fed.”

Fauntleroy sits up, drawing their knees under them on the couch. “I…are you sure?”

“Sure that you should feed? Yes.” Claquesous isn’t quite sure why he’s willing to offer this to them. He has shared with exactly three other people in his life and the first was his Sire, which was always less than voluntary. But he felt like offering to Fauntleroy, and he doesn’t feel like examining the decision any further. They can refuse if they want to.

Fauntleroy makes an effort to meet his eyes, then quickly glances at the bottle on the side table, before looking back at him again. “Can I really?”

Claquesous smirks. They sound eager. Hungrier now than a moment ago. “Yes,” he says. “Or I wouldn’t have offered.”

For a moment they sit very still, then they move quickly towards him across the couch. “Can I bite you on the left?”

“Whatever you like,” he replies, not stirring from his relaxed seated position, but Claquesous is slightly thrown. He had expected them to take his wrist, not—

“Thank you,” Fauntleroy murmurs, suddenly very close, and a soft hand shyly land on his shoulder.

Claquesous tips his head to the side. “Why left?”

“Right is for victims,” Fauntleroy replies and without another pause their teeth touch to his neck.

…

As soon as their fangs touch his neck they can tell they won’t be able to drink at this angle. Not without making a mess at least. And unthinkingly they move closer, straddling his lap and leaning back towards his neck in the same movement.

They’ve never been this close to him before and Fauntleroy feels like they should be nervous, but…this close they can smell his blood. They’ve never drunk from any other vampire than Bizarro. Just the fact that Claquesous offered is making them slightly fuzzy. He cares about them. They did know that of course, but…not like this.

Claquesous arches his back slightly when Fauntleroy sinks their fangs in his neck. It’s odd. He’s not limp like their victims, but neither is he holding them like Bizarro does. They bite a little deeper and Sous moves again, making Fauntleroy slip a hand into his hair just to keep him still. He stays in place now, but they don’t let go when they gently release the pressure on their teeth. As soon as the wound opens, their mouth fills with blood and Fauntleroy hears a sound hum in their ears that must have come from their own throat. Sous’ blood tastes unlike any they have ever drunk before. It’s thick and tepid, not thin and hot like the human blood they are so used to by now that all the tastes and smells blur together. This is different. His blood is cool, but they feel it warming them up inside as it slips down their throat. It doesn’t taste like the comfort of Bizarro, but heavier, sharper.

Fauntleroy drinks deeper, swallowing hungrily as that strange, hot feeling floods their body. It makes their limbs heavy, but their head light and they keep drinking just to have more of it. They don’t realise they’ve slumped forward until they feel Claquesous’ hand on their back, but he’s not making them stop, so they don’t. They’re drunk on the taste of him, eyes not quite closed but seeing nothing and for a single, exquisite moment Fauntleroy imagines that they’ll ever be hungry again.

They snap out of their trance and tip their head back, gasping like they still need to breathe. It’s like they’re taking in nothing but his scent though, no room for actual air to fill their lungs. A soft, wordless sound just passes their lips and Fauntleroy swallows their mouth clean, sliding off Claquesous’ lap with a drowsy movement.

Oh, their head is absolutely  _spinning_. What a wonderful thing.

…

Claquesous watches Fauntleroy open their eyes with the same sense of distant admiration he watches the moon appear from behind the clouds. They look _so_ gratified. There’s a dazed shine to their eyes and their cheeks are blooming like roses. Their lips are red and wet, but they haven’t spilled drop of blood. He reaches up to his neck, wiping off the wetness from where the wound has already closed. That was not what he was expecting. Not even close. But look at them…

Fauntleroy looks back at him, they’re still very close, nearly sitting against him. When they meet his gaze there is nothing left of the recalcitrant dissatisfaction from before. Claquesous doesn’t think they’ve ever seen them this relaxed, this soft around the edges.

“I—” Fauntleroy murmurs. “You taste- Thank you.” They cast down their eyes, but when they look up again they are smiling and Claquesous is pretty sure he just smiled back.

He doesn’t answer them, instead he gestures to the bottle perched on the box. “Could you hand me that?”

Their reaction is a tad slow, but as soon as they catch on they hurry to oblige, handing him the bottled blood with a rather cautious look on their face. “Did I take too much?”

Claquesous shakes his head, unscrewing the top and putting the glass to his lips. They didn’t. Not quite. Or he would have stopped them. But, he can’t run the risk of getting hungry just now. He drinks, slowly and steadily. Blood is best stored cold, just above freezing, and drinking it actually sends a chill through Claquesous’ chest. He finishes half the bottle before lowering it again and raising an eyebrow at Fauntleroy, who is practically staring at him.

“Sorry,” they mutter, averting their eyes.

“What,” he prompts, unbothered.

Fauntleroy shifts in their position. “Why do you drink that stuff? Do you really not care?”

As if anything bottled could ever compare to hot blood drawn straight from an artery.” It’s convenient,” he replies.

Their light brown eyes search his face. “Do you still hunt?”

“Rarely.”

“When you—” They cut themself off, shyly biting their lip.

“Hm?” he hums encouragingly. Their questions don’t irritate him, he prefers them to their quiet looks. Their feelings are very easy to read, but their thoughts much less so.

Fauntleroy sits up a little at his encouragement. “When you do hunt. Or did. How?”

Claquesous hesitates. He probably shouldn’t let himself be coaxed into that particular topic too deeply, but Fauntleroy’s eager curiosity is hard to resist. He settles on a sharp, smirking: “Humans get lost in the dark very easily.”

A grin overspreads Faun’s face. The blush on their cheeks hasn’t quite subsided yet and when they lean towards him Claquesous can smell his own blood on them.

“Why don’t you hunt anymore?” they ask.

He gives a nondescript tilt of his head. “Too much effort,” he lies. “Especially when it’s no longer necessary.”

Fauntleroy looks musingly at the bottle. “What did you do before Babet could fix blood for you?”

“Made use of other people like him,” Claquesous replies smoothly. “Medical men have always been useful. By the time they stopped believing in blood letting they had invented blood transfusions.”

They hum, still thoughtful for a moment, before looking up with a new spark of curiosity. “What about Parnasse?”

“Mm, his techniques are more like Bizarro’s,” he replies, more than willing to shift the subject away from himself. “A bit more impatient perhaps, but largely similar I should think.” He snorts softly. “Parnasse’s tastes are too particular. He’s fussy. Won’t put his teeth to anyone he doesn’t deem pretty enough.”

“Snob,” Faun grins.

Claquesous grins back. “Quite.”

Fauntleroy shifts positions again, coming to sit against him a little. “I couldn’t care less what they look like,” they sniff. “I follow my nose, not my eyes.”

They’re no longer looking at him and Claquesous takes in their expression with a sideways glance. The red glint of hunger has gone from their eyes, but they are still darkened with feeding.

“I can always smell what I like.”

He doesn’t doubt them.

Faun’s turns their head and their eyes flit back to his face, lingering on his neck for just a moment too long. “It doesn’t…hurt, right?”

Claquesous looks at them in surprise, not quite comprehending.

“Being bitten,” they explain, suddenly shy.

His lips move silently for a moment. They can’t be serious. “Surely you’ve been—”

“Well, yeah,” Fauntleroy flusters. “But I was still human then. It hurt then.”

“You’ve never—” Claquesous shakes himself slightly. Of course, it makes sense that a sire like Bizarro wouldn’t drink from her fledgling, and Faun is so… “How old are you exactly?”

“I turned four years ago.”

He nods, as if that was a confirmation rather than a surprise. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says then. “Not like being human anyway. The biting nor the drinking.”

Fauntleroy nods. Good.

“Did you never ask Bizarro that?”

Faun looks away. “She’s different though.”

Claquesous hums. “She sure is.”

A silence settles over the two of them, not quite uncomfortable, but not quite easy yet. Claquesous muses distantly about the situation, sharing with Faun, hiding away in the storage room, having them sitting against him like they are, until Faun suddenly puts their head against his shoulder.

“Thank you, Sous,” they mutter.

He makes a noise that comes out a lot more affectionate than he himself was expecting. They are a rare find, Fauntleroy, he doesn’t wonder at Bizarro’s turning them. “Babet will calm down soon, he always does,” he says. “He doesn’t hold the illusion he can actually put us under house arrest.”

They laugh softly, sighing a little. “Yeah, okay.”

This time, the silence is comfortable, and because it is, Claquesous doesn’t get up. Faun is still leaning against him, and he can spare a few more minutes. Time is never scarce.


	11. Chapter 11

The clouds are so thick tonight that there is nothing but the streetlights to break the darkness. Outside their weak circle of light the shadows are black as pitch. Fauntleroy has been playing hide and seek in it all night. Until they found what they wanted.

What they wanted is currently sliding down their throat by the pint.

“ _Faun_ —”

Rich, warm blood, good enough to get properly drunk on.

“Faun, that’s _enough_.”

Fauntleroy heard Montparnasse very well, but they don’t stop. They’re hungry and Parnasse can f—

“ _Faun_.” A vice-like grip on the back of their neck forces their head back and Fauntleroy squirms, blood splattering their lips as they let go of their victim in an attempt to fight off Montparnasse.

He lets go of them immediately, indifferent enough to offend them even further, and kneels beside the rather lifeless body of the rude and frankly _unpleasant_ man they had been feeding on. Better suited for food than conversation, as far as Fauntleroy is concerned.

They swallow, licking their lips and wiping their mouth before glancing down with a wrinkled nose. “You made me spill on my clothes. _Jerk_.” Having Parnasse as a goddamn _babysitter_ has taken all the fun out of hunting. 

Montparnasse ignores them completely. He’s busy checking the man’s pulse. “Probably enough to make it,” he mutters with a shrug.

“Why don’t you carry him to the hospital while you’re at it,” Fauntleroy sneers. At least when Gueulemer goes with he's willing to let them have some fun, even if he _also_ won't let them drink their fill.

“Thanks,” Montparnasse drawls, digging the man’s phone out of his coat pocket. “Nice to know you appreciate me keeping you safe.” He fumbles to dial 112 without taking his gloves off.

“You’re not doing this for me,” Fauntleroy hisses. “You’re doing it for the whiny halfblood you don’t want to share.”

Montparnasse gives them a dirty look, getting to his feet and dropping the phone nest to the man’s limp hands as soon as it connects. He grabs them by their arm. “We’re going home,” he orders.

Fauntleroy splutters in protest, but he’s already dragging them along and even though they’re just a bit faster, Montparnasse is considerably stronger than they are.

“Go bother Sous if you’re still hungry.”

They hiss at him, roughly pulling free from his grasp to sullenly walk with him on their own. He doesn’t get to mock them. Fauntleroy would like Montparnasse a lot more if he didn’t get so damn pissy all the time. Same for Babet. Sous doesn’t snap or sneer at them. Ever.

…

Claquesous’ pencil pauses above his paper. He can hear a pair of nigh soundless feet finding purchase on the ledge outside his window. It isn’t locked, so he doesn’t get up, merely turning around to see Fauntleroy slip into the room in in their usual light-footed fashion. They’ve been hunting, Claquesous smells the blood as soon as they enter. He’s not hungry, but his insides still twist. Faun’s lips are plump and red.

“Hi,” they say, offering him a pleased look. There’s blood on the front of their shit.

He nods a return greeting. “Had a good hunt?”

“Not really,” they say, wrinkling their nose. “Parnasse was there.”

Claquesous snorts. “Stop draining people and he might leave you alone.”

Faun scoffs and sits down on the trunk beside his desk, curiously craning their neck. “What are you working on?”

Claquesous pushes the paper slightly towards them. Faun can't quite read notes, yet. Not by his standards anyway. But they have a pretty good feel for it and he has been casually teaching them the basics. Whether they can actually follow the melody or are just taking in the pattern as their eyes flit down the staves he doesn't know.

They smile slightly, a flash of fangs shimmering just below their lip.

“Pretty…” They look up. “Is it for violin?”

He nods, pulling the paper towards him again, laying the pencil down. Fauntleroy likes to watch him work sometimes, but when they drop in this late it’s usually for something else. He leans back in his chair, giving them a questioning look. “Still hungry?”

Fauntleroy shifts their weight a little. “No…” Their eyes are uncommonly bright for the undead. “I was wondering if you were… Babet being gone and all.”

Claquesous sits frozen on his chair. Just the thought of what Faun is offering is— No. There’s a reason he rarely hunts. Very likely the same reason why he has inadvertently taken such a liking to Fauntleroy. Insistent, fierce, insatiable little Fauntleroy… He swallows.

“Babet never goes away without leaving supplies,” he says and his voice comes out acceptably even.

Fauntleroy’s expression changes just a little, but they don’t lean away from him. “Right…” they say softly.

Claquesous tries to move, push his chair back, but his body won’t quite obey him.

“I drank a lot,” Faun says. “ I can afford to share.”

They’re only offering to be fair, Claquesous thinks. Equal. They want to reciprocate, repay him maybe. But there is a difference – a world of difference – between letting Faun crawl into his lap and hang over him to drink their fill, and putting his own teeth to their skin. They don’t know what they’re offering. They’re young, barely five years removed from life, they have _no idea_. Giving he can do. Taking he absolutely cannot.

“Very generous of you.” He even manages a smile. “But it’s really not necessary tonight.”

Fauntleroy leans back. “Okay.”

There’s a short pause and for a moment Claquesous is convinced they will get up and leave.

“…can I hear what you have so far?”

The tension in his shoulders breaks. “It’s not finished yet.”

They give a soft kick against his chair with their left foot. “What you have so _far_.”

Claquesous gives them a single disapproving look. And then he gets up to fetch his violin.


	12. Chapter 12

Bizarro must admit that the delights of travelling on her own again were just a bit too inviting. She had not meant to lengthen her stay in Nice as she did. Her return, however, is not merely motivated by guilt and her (admittedly slightly underdeveloped) sense of responsibility. She misses Fauntleroy. She has only known them for four and a half years and yet…

Fauntleroy’s welcome of her is flatteringly enthusiastic. They have never been apart for this long since their turning and for a moment, when Fauntleroy buries their face against her shoulder, Bizarro struggles with the desire to laugh and cry at the same time. She cannot cry at any rate, so she smiles.

She keeps smiling all the way through her time at Faun’s temporary home. Clearly, there was no need to feel quite so guilty. Fauntleroy treats Babet like a much put-upon uncle. Montparnasse reacts to them with exasperation, but a shocking lack of actual impatience, and Claquesous seems genuinely sorry to see them go. Or perhaps it’s not regret on his face, but it is certainly something of real emotion, which is surprising enough in and of itself.

She’s actually still musing on that while she leads Faun back to their new apartment. She’s found a pretty little maisonette that will suit them just fine. Fauntleroy is chattering about one of the wolfish boys, Brujon. They have taken to him even more than Bizarro expected. That will be…a challenge, certainly, but Fauntleroy sounds so happy she cannot bring herself to mind.

“They don’t go out as much now during the full moon, because of the pack.”

“Yes,” Bizarro hums, pushing her tangled thoughts aside. “Tell me about that. I’ve heard very little besides the fact that there is one. What can they be thinking, an _urban_ pack?”

“They’re not just wolves,” Fauntleroy confides, dropping their voice. “They have a daywalker.”

Bizarro nearly stops walking. “ _Really_.”

Fauntleroy nods empathically.

“Have you met them?” True daywalkers are so rare she’s only ever encountered one in all her travels.

“Gueul has,” Fauntleroy replies, making deliberate eye contact with her. “But none of _us_ have...except for Montparnasse.”

Bizarro raises an eyebrow. “Is that so.” She had not expected Montparnasse quite so foolish. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Must be a very pretty daywalker.”

“They better be,” Fauntleroy grins.

“Well, that should be interesting,” she laughs. “Ah, see, here we are.” She wraps an arm around Faun’s waist and nods towards the building.

Fauntleroy looks up at the window casements and the balcony with glittering eyes. “It’s perfect!”

They bury against her side, hugging both their arms around her and Bizarro laughs pressing a kiss to the top of Faun’s head. As she inhales in the rhythm of her laughter she catches a lungful of Fauntleroy’s scent and something in the back of her mind clicks. A distant part of her had picked up on something during Faun’s greeting hug, but that had been back at the other house. Bizarro’s sense of smell is nothing to rival some of her kind, nothing to Fauntleroy’s for instance, but surrounded by the fresh evening air and with her nose buried in Faun’s hair the change in smell is hard to miss.

 _Claquesous_ has been feeding Fauntleroy…

 _Well_ , she thinks as she unlocks the door, that's rather unexpected. Just as well she came back when she did, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mama vampire is just a bit suspicious...


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Montparnasse for an interlude...
> 
> (Mention of alcohol/drugs, hunting of a human.)

Montparnasse’s feet make no sound on the pavement. He moves through the shadows of the urban night with such ease it’s barely noticeable that he himself lacks one.

Just far enough ahead of him to not get suspicious, a fair-haired young man is making his way home. Or not, as they case may be.

The young man turns the corner, disappearing from Montparnasse’s direct line of sight, but this alley has no branches, there is nowhere for him to disappear to. Montparnasse still speeds up a little though. He’s hungry, his patience wearing a little thin, and just around that corner would be the perfect place to—

The footsteps in front of him come to an abrupt halt. Montparnasse’s pale eyes narrow in the dark. People don’t just stop walking for no reason.

“It’s awful late to be out here all on your own…” a singsong voice warns.

“…what?” the young man answers uncertainly.

Montparnasse should have recognized the voice immediately, but it takes him _just_ a second too long. Which means he doesn’t hurry quite fast enough. He only rounds the corner in time to see a silver shine reflect off a pair of brilliant eyes as a vicious hissing sound splits the quiet night.

The frantic cry of fear that follows is even more jarring and Montparnasse quickly steps aside, disappearing into the shadows with a resentful snarl as the young man storms back the way he came, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Montparnasse watches him go and then turns to face the orchestrator of his disappointment.

“What did you have to go and do that for?” he complains, looking down reproachfully on the short figure of Jehan Prouvaire.

“You were going to hurt him,” they say, clearly not the least bit sorry. They nod in the direction his would-be victim ran off in and pull their fair face into a slightly mocking pout. “Enjolras would have been _angry_ with you.”

 _Enjolras_. Montparnasse hisses slightly at the back of his mouth. Damn purebreds.

“Maybe I wasn’t going to hurt him at all,” he says, taking a slow step towards Jehan. He can already hear their heart beating behind the rhythm of their breathing, any closer and he’ll be able to feel their warmth. He lets his grin widen far enough to bare his fangs. “Maybe I was about to fulfil his darkest desires.”

Jehan brings the pout back to their face. A little less mocking this time and a little more deliberate. “Then _I_ would have been jealous,” they say. They take a step to the side, circling hallway around Montparnasse, moving back until their back is nearly against one of the rough walls lining the alleyway. “Anyway…no need for you to go hungry…”

Montparnasse moves with them, light eyes fixed on their dark ones. Jehan is looking up at him without a shred of fear on their face, but their heartbeat is quickening with every step he draws nearer. They’re fully backed up against the wall now and Montparnasse spares a single thought for how preposterous it is that no one, in about 200 years of existence, has managed to get so close to fucking up the entire order of his world as Jehan has.

“Maybe I don’t want to drink from you, brazen little daywalker,” he says, sinking his voice to something nearly sweet and nearly dangerous.

“Don’t you?” Jehan blinks and they slant their head just a little. Of course they know that he’s lying. They probably saw through him from the first moment their eyes met.

Montparnasse clenches his teeth and shakes his head, slowly and silently.

Jehan lifts their face to his. “Then you better kiss me goodnight and let me go,” they order.

Montparnasse manages to press one frantic, breath-stealing kiss on their mouth before his self-control snaps.

Jehan’s gasps as his teeth sink into their neck, their fingers digging possessively into his back. Montparnasse holds them to prevent pressing them into the wall, biting deeper and much slower than he normally would. Jehan keens, squirming in his arms, and Montparnasse feels drunk already.

He’s wasteful, opening his mouth to kiss the wound and coat his lips with blood, before he starts drinking, but Jehan rewards him for it with a chorus of enamoured sounds spilling from their lips. Even when he starts drinking, pulling the very life out of their veins, they press against him to urge him on.

Montparnasse has had plenty of willing partners, but none of them with their hearts still beating ever managed to stay conscious like Jehan does. And _no one_ , Montparnasse knows that for sure, has ever enjoyed this as much as Jehan does.

He forces himself to break away, taking in a lungful of air that he does not need for anything besides drinking Jehan’s smell in even deeper than he already has. He is dangerously unsteady on his feet for a moment, taking a nearly stumbling step away from Jehan’s warmth.

Montparnasse knows he shouldn’t be doing this. Never feed from a halfblood, all the undead know that. Even his body is trying to warn him; Jehan’s blood, with it’s heady, inhuman bouquet, tastes absolutely toxic to him. But it’s toxic like the alcohol and opium he remembers from his living youth. _In_ toxicating. Ambrosial. Addictive.

Shying away from vices never has been Montparnasse’s forte.

Head still swimming, he lifts his eyes to Jehan’s face. The wounds in their neck are healing already, but there is deep crimson dripping down their skin, ready to add red blooms to the yellow flowers scattered on their shirt. Montparnasse’s should have drunk his fill and then some, but all he wants is more. Fucking hell, every time they let him drink from them they taste better.

“Fuck me,” he groans, allowing himself to be drawn back into Jehan’s arms, eagerly leaning towards their neck to clean their skin with licking kisses. “What the hell have you been feeding on?”

“Just admit it,” Jehan grins, winding their arms around his neck and threading their fingers into his hair with a movement that toes the line between tender and possessive. “You’re just a sucker for vegans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this for Azura quite a while ago, because they've always been a terrible enabler when it comes to vampires <3


	14. Chapter 14

It’s just after midnight. The night still stretched out before him and a sure cover of darkness enveloping the park. Most parks in Paris close at night nowadays. A sad business.

Claquesous keeps his pace slow, even then his long strides allow Fauntleroy to hurry and dart around him a little as they walk alongside him. They get distracted easily, wandering off sometimes to inspect a plant or an animal, but for the past few minutes they’ve been engrossed in telling him about the start of their unlife with Bizarro. Claquesous listens to them with easy, unforced interest. As usual, Faun knows more than he thought they did. They know about Bizarro’s other fledglings for one. Not that they seem to have seen much of them. Probably for the best. Fauntleroy’s kindred are of a different stamp than they are.

“But you and Parnasse were turned together, right?” Fauntleroy suddenly asks. “Actually at the same time?”

He nods.

Fauntleroy peers up at him curiously. Their hair is pink tonight. It suits them.

“Our Sire was a powerful man, of sorts,” Claquesous says measuredly. “We worked for him a few times, while alive.”

“Oh…”

He can taste their questions on the air. They want to know how, why, details, specifics. Ancient history. He doesn’t feel like getting into all that. Not with Faun, who cares for Bizarro beyond anything.

Fauntleroy is not quite discouraged by his prolonged silence though. Those days are long gone.

“Was?” they ask gently.

“Was,” he confirms calmly. His Sire should have given more thought to the fact that he was setting himself up to be outnumbered when he turned both Montparnasse and him.

Fauntleroy looks at him intently for a moment, but doesn’t press again.

A short silence settles between them as they walk on. It’s a silence of mutual understanding and Claquesous knows he does not have to fill it. He breaks it all the same, because he wants to.

“You were telling me about London.”

“Yes!” they perk up. “I—”

Claquesous halts his step as they trail off.

Fauntleroy’s head turns, their attention diverting to a parallel path across a little lawn dotted with rhododendrons. An older couple is walking down the lit walkway, affectionately close to each other, both of them moving with lively steps. Immediately, instinctually, Fauntleroy takes a slow step towards them. Claquesous calmly catches them by their arm.

“No.”

They look back at him disgruntledly, almost pleading. There’s a hunger in their eyes that wasn’t there before, but that Claquesous knows won’t subside now it’s been sparked. Not in Fauntleroy.

“Hunting in parks is a bad habit,” he hums, pulling them along with him. “Too predictable. And it pisses off the wolves.”

Fauntleroy grumbles something, but doesn’t try to pull away from him, instead they draw closer.

Claquesous looks down at them amusedly, letting go of their arm.

They twist around him, making an eager sound at the back of their throat.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t been here,” he demands, fighting the urge to just smile and give in already. “Would you have gone after them both? On your own?”

The red in Fauntleroy’s eyes glints. “I’ve done it before. It’s not that hard, if you’re fast enough.”

Of course they have.

Claquesous reaches out and pulls Faun against him, their back to his chest. He steps backwards, into the deeper shadows of the carefully kept row of trees. He lifts his left wrist to be level with Fauntleroy’s face.

“Go on then.”

Fauntleroy grabs his arm happily and their fangs sink into his wrist without hesitation. Claquesous holds them loosely as they drink, looking over the top of their head to make sure no one will come to disturb them.

They stop without needing a reminder, carefully pulling away and licking their lips. They lean back against him for a moment longer, their head tipped back against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” they sigh.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think Bizarro didn’t feed you enough when she turned you,” he teases.

“Does that influence the hunger?” Fauntleroy asks curiously. They turn around, but still lean against him, clingy in the way they always are when he’s shared with them.

“No,” he replies, he knows for a fact it doesn't. “Just an old superstition.”

“Hmm,” Faun hums. “She fed me a lot actually.”

He smirks. “Maybe that was her mistake.”

The exhale through their nose with a deliberate huff, linking their arm with his when he starts moving again. “You’re the one that doesn’t want me to feed myself, so…”

Claquesous snorts. They're mistaken, he would _love_ to see Faun hunt. He’d adore seeing what they’re like with their fangs bared and their eyes all flooded red. There is such an energy hidden inside them, such unending persistence. To see all that focussed on a prey should be quite the sight. He can feel the thought pull on him with all the promise of vicarious enjoyment. No, no, he would _definitely_ like to see them feeding themself.

But they don’t need to know that.

It’s better that they don’t.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for distressed feelings and unhappiness.

Fading into the shadows comes naturally to Claquesous, but it somehow is even easier in the streets he calls home. There should be no difference, light and darkness know no place or time, but he feels it all the same. It is even easier nowadays, with all these glaring streetlights. They make the shadows that much darker.

Still, in essentials the city never changes and Claquesous feels the familiarity of the surroundings settle in his bones as he once again puts solid feet on the pavement. Suddenly there are steps to be heard again, but they are the single sound he leaves behind.

It is good to be back.

He makes his way to the place he calls home slowly, those measured steps deliberately audible, but without hurrying. He’s making it known that he has returned. That the darkness is no longer empty. Well, not that it ever really is empty. Not around these parts.

As if eager to prove a point the silence of the night shifts slightly and Claquesous is suddenly no longer alone.

The flash of colour comes out of nowhere in the blink of an eye, but Claquesous is used to it by now. The sight of Fauntleroy dropping down from random overhead structures has become familiar too, and far from unwelcome. He’s not about to admit it of course, but he genuinely missed them. He—

“ _Sous_.”

The vague grin around Claquesous’ lips dissolves. Fauntleroy’s eyes are wide and frantic, as soon as they’re close enough their slender hands close around his arms like vices.

“Faun,” he protests. “What—”

“You’re back,” they breathe, eyes darting to look him up and down before focussing anxiously on his face again.

Claquesous stares at them. “Yes?” he replies quizzically. “Why w—”

“ _Where have you been_.” Whatever was frantic about Fauntleroy before is suddenly replaced by snarling anger. They let go of him, nearly shoving him away in the process and they actually bare their fangs at him as they look up at his face.

What on earth has gotten into them? Some welcome this is. “Calm down, Faun,” he tries, reaching out to them, but they _hiss_ at him. Claquesous snatches his hand back.

“Where the _fuck_ did you go,” they repeat, the hiss of their anger wobbling towards something different again. “You- You can’t just _disappear_ on me.”

“Disappear?” he echoes and he nearly laughs. “I was gone for barely a—”

“A _month_!” Fauntleroy nearly shrieks. “You drop out of existence for a month and everyone tells me that _I_ am being unreasonable!”

Claquesous raises his hands in placating surrender, actually taking a step back. They wanted him to _check_ _in_ with them? “Surely Parnasse told you—”

“Parnasse didn’t know where you were either!” Fauntelroy spits, glaring at him like they wish they could wring his neck. “And he didn’t even fucking _care_.”

“It was barely four weeks,” Claquesous says cautiously, but then it occurs to him: “Of course…I can imagine that for you…”

“Don’t you _dare_ make this about my age!” they snap, damn near stamping their feet. “I could have lived for a goddamn millennium and I’d _still_ want to know if— If one of the people I care about decided to just _up and leave_.” They bristle at him. “Especially if the person in question is to _fucking_ stubborn to carry _a sodding phone_!”

They shut their mouth, just standing there seething in silence for a moment and Claquesous tries very hard to think of something to say that will not make them scream again. Fauntleroy is being unreasonable. There’s really no reason for them to demand knowing his travel plans, what use could it possibly be to them to know? But in all their characteristic burst of emotion they have never been angry with him.

He frowns at them and they stare at him, clearly expecting at least some kind of response.

“I was in Toulouse,” he says finally. “If it’s so important to you to know.”

Fauntleroy’s face contorts. “You think _that’s_ what this is about?” They shove him away from them. “You’re a moron.”

They turn away from him with a jerk and Claquesous is certain they mean to run away. But there was a catch in their voice just now that sounded almost like a sob and his hand has already closed around their wrist before he’s aware what he is doing.

They spin round, hissing like an animal and pull themselves free with enough force to make him stumble. Then suddenly, as he’s trying to regain his balance, they grab his face, pulling it towards them and press their mouth against his.

Every single sensation except the contact of Faun’s skin against his drains from the world for a moment.

And then it comes surging back as Fauntleroy makes a horrified, choked-off noise and lets go of him, staggering backwards. The anger has gone from their face, their eyes wide and silently panicked as they stare up at him. For the first time in almost two hundred years Claquesous feels like his breathless, pulseless body is in complete discord with the rest of his being.

For just a second Faun opens their mouth like they want to speak, and then they bolt, disappearing as abruptly as they always seem to appear.

Claquesous watches them go, frozen. Then, slowly, he touches a hand to his lips and breathes a single word into the stillness of the night.

“…shit.”

…

Faun runs.

If they could still cry, they would have. Instead they clench their teeth and force their body to move as fast as it possibly can. Sometimes when they do this, just for a flicker of feeling it seems like their body forgets what it is. Like it is no longer sure of their shape, of their feet hitting the ground, their fists clenching. And for a few lingering seconds it feels like they could have claws, wings, like their feet could leave the ground and they would still keep going.

Bizarro has promised them that they’ll be able to do it. One day. Faun knows it won’t be today. They know they’re too young. Too weak. But they want it to be now. Because they do not want to be _themself_ right now.

There is no one else they can be though. No one else but the angry, impulsive, _stupid_ child they are. The miserable humiliation of what they just did stabs at Fauntleroy’s temples like silver. Claquesous will never let them close to him again. Won’t want to share his blood with them anymore. One moment of confused stupidity and they have forfeited all the privilege he ever bestowed on them. He will think that he let them drink too much, too often, that the call of his blood has muddled their mind. As if they haven’t wanted to know him from the first moment they saw him. As if they haven’t wanted to be near him ever since he first spoke to them. But now he’ll never believe them. He will think they are sick for him, in love with him. They’re _not_. They just— The dry absence of tears in Faun’s eyes nearly hurts. They just want him to care.

They want to mean as much to him as he means to them.

…

Montparnasse hears Claquesous come home, but he doesn’t move from where he’s draped across the faded chaise longue. He does open his eyes, waiting for the familiar shadow in the doorway. When Claquesous appears he makes the slightest noise of recognition.

“You smell like half-breed blood,” Claquesous sniffs, in place of a greeting.

“And you smell like the South,” Montparnasse replies contemptuously. Even through his sneering, though, he can tell something is off.

Montparnasse raises his head just a little. Claquesous’ face is blank as a mask, like always, but Montparnasse has not spent centuries in his company without learning to read his eyes. Something is wrong. Claquesous looks…rattled. Anything bad enough to rattle Claquesous is _very_ bad news.

“Something cut your travel short?” he asks, with polished nonchalance.

“No,” Claquesous says stiffly. He sits down in a chair and now Montparnasse can clearly see the frown hidden in his dark eyes.

Montparnasse waits.

“Did Faun come ask you where I went?”

That is a question Montparnasse hadn’t been expecting. “Yes,” he replies. “ _Several_ times.” It had become rather annoying at some point. “What?” They smirk. “Did they ambush you as soon as you set one foot back in Paris?”

Claquesous face is stony.

“Merde.” Montparnasse sits up. “They _did_.” He lets out a curt sound. _That_ is what Sous is disconcerted by? “Well,” he sneers. “You decided to adopt them.”

He gets a snarl for that.

“What did they do?” Montparnasse smirks. “Stamp their foot at you for not sending them a post card?” He stretches himself out on the chaise again. “They’re sentimental, and emotional. Just like their Sire. They’ll get over it.”

Claquesous doesn’t answer him.

…

Of all her fledglings, Fauntleroy is the one Bizarro understands the least. Perhaps that is part of why they love them so much, she thinks, as she gently strokes their back. They are precious to her in all their contradictory complexity.

“You’re sure it’s nothing I can help you with?” she tries again.

Faun shakes their head where it is nearly buried against her stomach. They are lying curled up on their side, as much in her lap as they can.

“Alright, lastachka,” Bizarro sighs when the short, stubborn head movements cease again. She resumes her stroking, raking cool fingers through their hair. Her little Faun feels so deeply, so wildly. It reminds her of her own first decades of undeath. Back when everything was still so vibrant and bewildering, when she didn’t have to go looking for indulgences yet to feed her soul.

On her lap, Fauntleroy screws their eyes shut a little tighter and Bizarro hums at them with affectionate sympathy. She does not ask them again to talk, if they don’t want to tell her she won’t press them. Most likely whatever has upset their dear unbeating heart will have passed by tomorrow night and they will be back to their old self again.

She smiles fondly. Fauntleroy’s feelings are deep, but often just as fast. Once they’ve had a sulk, a ramble and a drink, they’ll be right as rain again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That accidental kiss was the first vampire!faun/vampire!sous I wrote and it _stuck with me_ , clearly.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is very hurt/comfort, for everyone involved. There's some physical pain and heartbreak, but also a lot of good warm friendship.

The full moon has erratic effects on a halfbreed like Brujon. Fauntleroy doesn’t fully understand how, but the gist of it seems to be that the purer the werewolf blood, the stronger the werewolf, and that includes having control over the transformation. This month is a bad moon, the worst Fauntleroy has seen so far. There’s still three days to go until the peak of the full moon and Brujon is already in a bad way.

Fauntleroy is pretty sure the only reason why Gueulemer allowed them to stay with him on their own is because he was too damn tired to argue, but they’re glad they talked him into it. Both because they want to be there for their friend and because this way they can’t focus on themself at least. It’s hard to feel sorry for themself with Brujon writhing around on the floor.

“Does it help if I talk?” they suggest, petting Brujon’s increasingly shaggy hair as he presses his face into the pillow they just forced under his head.

He gives a nondescript grunt. His back is arching strangely and Fauntleroy can hear the clicking of vertebrae. Hastily they do what Gueulemer instructed them to, putting a hand between Brujon’s shoulder blades and pushing down hard.

Brujon whines, but the worrying movements stop and after a moment of holding him down and stroking his hair Fauntleroy can hear his breathing evening out again. They slowly retract their hands and Brujon rolls on his side, one bloodshot eye opening to peer at them.

“…thanks.”

“Told you not to mention it,” Fauntleroy says gently. They lay down next to him on the rough floor. They did ask Gueulemer why they wouldn’t put down a matrass or at least a blanket, but he had just muttered darkly about choking hazards.

“Fuck I’m hungry,” Brujon breathes. “Is it twelve yet?”

“Sorry,” Fauntleroy mutters. Apparently it’s a very delicate balance, making sure Brujon isn’t so hungry he starts acting out, but at the same time not giving his body enough energy to put towards the transformation. It sounds worse, much worse than what they have to deal with as far as Fauntleroy is concerned.

Brujon groans, but opens both his eyes, lying with his knees drawn up and looking at Fauntleroy with a weak grin. “I heard Sous is back.”

They tense, lying very still. “Yes.”

Brujon’s grin fades. The yellow sheen to his eyes fades with it, replaced by something like concern. “Hasn’t come to see you yet?” he guesses.

Fauntleroy sits up again, trying to hide their expression. “No, I have, it’s fine.”

Brujon sits up too, shivering as if he’s cold, despite how flushed his face still is. He ignores it though, his full attention fixed on them now. “Aren’t you glad he’s back?”

Fauntelroy can’t bring themself to answer that. They glance up at him and desperately search for something to say. They’re not fast enough though. Angry lines are creasing into Brujon’s face.

“ _What did he do?_ ” he demands and Brujon’s voice drawls out into a low growl that bares teeth that are considerably longer than a moment before.

“No!” they say hastily. “He didn’t do anything, nothing happened.”

The growling doesn’t stop and Brujon’s body contorts. “Don’t…fucking…lie to me,” he pants, pressing himself down against the floor. “You—” His legs start convulsing and Fauntleroy hastily clambers over him and forces him down.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” they insist, raising their voice enough for Brujon to hear them over the sounds of his struggle. They keep talking, trying to make him listen, to make him calm down. “It was me. I fucked up. I was angry because he just disappeared like that and then he didn’t even understand _why_ and—and I fucked up and kissed him.”

Brujon stops thrashing, panting heavily, but the anger draining from his limbs.

Fauntleroy lets go of him. All their feelings are twisting up inside their ribcage and they wish they had kept their stupid mouth shut.

With a grunt Brujon rolls over onto his back and looks up at them cautiously. “So…what happened?”

Fauntelroy hugs their knees. “Nothing,” they say and they sound bitter. “He did nothing. Just stared at me. So I ran.”

“Fuck…” Brujon mutters.

They let out a breathy, mirthless laugh. “Yeah.” They hug their knees to their chest.

Brujon looks at them tensely, yellow eyes fixed and ears pricked. He doesn’t look quite human anymore, but he’s calm now. Uncomfortable, but calm. “That…sucks,” he mumbles. “Shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.”

Fauntleroy shakes their head, trying to shrug it off and give him a smile. “That’s okay, it’s just—” They shrug their shoulders. “I haven’t even told Biz, cause she’d just…smile and say ‘well he sure is handsome’ and that’s not, not the point.”

He gives them an uncertain look and Fauntleroy clenches their teeth hard for a moment.

“It doesn’t matter,” they say harshly. “I just want to forget about it.” They want Claquesous to forget about it.

Brujon looks at them a bit awkwardly. He clears his throat when they look away. “Hey…”

Fauntleroy doesn’t move, but looks up at him all the same.

“That thing he does with his face that I think is supposed to be smiling,” Brujon starts. “He only does that at you.”

He’s trying to make them feel better, but all Fauntleroy can think of is that strange, shocked expression on Claquesous’ face just before they turned and fled.

“I’m sure he cares, but dude—Faun, he’s _ancient_.” Brujon grimaces. “Gueul says they lose, like, their feelings, when they get that old, vampires. That’s why you gotta be careful with—you’re not like that though,” he ends hastily.

“I don’t want to be like that. Ever.” And they won’t be, they _never_ will be, but the thought of everyone around them ending up like that is… They press their forehead to their knees, hiding their face.

“All I’m saying is…I guess he’d be into you if he could be.”

_He doesn’t have to be_. The words are already half-formed on Fauntleroy’s lips when the thought that he never even _could_ be robs them of any desire to speak. Brujon’s got it all wrong, that not even what they want, but hearing that they _can’t have it_ is slipping a knife between their ribs. They just want- They want- They want Claquesous to want them back.

The misery coiling in Fauntleroy’s chest spills from their lips in a whine and they let it, trying to pour into noise what they have no other outlet for.

To their surprise Brujon echoes the sound, in a strange sort of wordless empathy, and Fauntleroy suddenly feels his chin coming to lean on their shoulder. Fauntleroy shifts just enough to lean the side of their head against his and for a while they just sit like that, in mutual silence.

Finally, Fauntleroy lifts their head, offering Brujon a watery smile when their eyes meet.

“I guess bumming you out works pretty well against the moon,” they joke weakly.

He pulls a face, rocking sideways to bump their shoulders together and Fauntleroy’s smile grows a little stronger.

“Sorry,” they sigh.

“Shut up,” he mutters resolutely.

Fauntleroy pushes back against him, smile still wavering, and tries to focus on the friend that’s here for them now, instead of the friend they’ll have to keep denying being in love with.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for more human hunting and graphic descriptions of violence.

Five nights. That’s as long as Claquesous can bear to wait. Which is ridiculous, considering he’s just been gone for a month. Perhaps part of him had expected Faun to come find him again. Either to explain themself or to spit more anger at him. Either of those he could have dealt with, but their absence he suddenly can’t seem cope with. Not when the last thing they did was run from him. He has managed to brush of and reason away the rest of that encounter, but he has to make at least that part of it right.

He has had enough time to compose himself. Five nights must be enough. His self-control has always been his strong point, in all matters, there is no reason for this to be different.

Fauntleroy is incredibly easy to find. They already were before they drank from him so regularly, and the month’s pause hasn’t made a lot of difference. He doesn’t even bother checking Bizarro’s house first, but walks the dark until he picks up their trail, somewhere between a scent and a feeling. He manages to intercept them at the entrance of a rather barren playground. That’s what it must pass for anyway.

He announces himself before he can startle them. “Faun—” 

They spin round, eyes wide, and for a moment they look so happy to see him that Claquesous genuinely feels guilty for waiting even these few days. Then their expression abruptly turns wary. They hug their arms close to their chest and glance at him accusingly from behind a wisp of purple hair.

“Why are you here?” They almost sound cold.

“To see you,” he replies, his face and voice much calmer than his feelings. He has _never_ heard them speak like that.

Faun looks suspicious, defensive even. “Well, I’m hunting, so...so I don’t want to talk.”

Claquesous isn’t sure if they’re punishing him or protecting themselves, but either way he doesn’t like it. Fauntleroy has always been eager to be near him, from the first moment they met, literally. This is unnatural, unbalancing. He doesn't want this.

“I’ll come with you.” The words have left his mouth before he can stop himself.

Fauntleroy blinks. “Really?”

“Unless you want me to leave,” he adds and the reluctance in his voice is nearly audible.

“No! …you can come,” Faun says hastily, and suddenly, as if their surprise caused a crack in their attempt at standoffishness, something eager and joyful spreads across their face. “You mean it? You’ll come hunting with me? You never come along!” They eye him curiously. “Not even with Parnasse.”

Their sudden change of mood is far too gratifying. Claquesous doesn’t like how much it affects him, how relieved he is. But he came here to make things well again, and he’s succeeding. “Perhaps I’m making an exception for you,” he replies.

Faun absolutely glows at that. “Will you actually _hunt_ with me?” they ask eagerly, their eyes glinting darkly.

“We’ll see,” he hums, but he knows he won’t. He’s already making several bad decisions here, no need to add to them.

“Okay,” they say, bouncing on their feet a little with sudden energy. They grin, their fangs flashing in the dark. “Let’s go then!”

…

Fauntleroy’s unbeating heart is dancing in their chest. They are dancing, darting through the night with Sous at their heels. He came to them. It took him nearly a week, but he came to them. They don’t even care about the other stuff anymore, not right this second. He came and he’s _going hunting with them_.

That is enough. They will make it be enough.

“I meant to ask.” Claquesous’ voice is barely above a whisper as they cross the empty playground, but Fauntleroy can hear him perfectly. “Doesn’t Bizarro ever come with you?”

“Yes,” they reply, unconcernedly. “But we don’t like each other’s methods.”

As they say that, Fauntleroy’s step slows, nearly to a halt. They inhale deeply, and their eyes close for a moment.

When they pick a victim they don’t care about demeanour, don’t pay attention to what they look like, what kind of clothes they have or how they wear their hair. All they care about is smell.

“Sounds like someone coming this way,” Sous mutters, turning around.

Fauntleroy’s eyes flash open and they let their grin bare their teeth. “Smells like breakfast.”

…

He barely sees them move. One moment Faun is still beside him, the next they’re out of sight. All that betrays them is the creaking of the shabby climbing structure a few feet away. Claquesous looks up, seeing just a flash of colour among the grey. Fauntleroy’s limbs are wrapped around the iron bars with barely any effort. They are hanging almost upside down, their head twisted, and their eyes fixed expectantly in one direction.

The approaching footsteps are coming closer now, but Claquesous is stuck staring. Everything about Fauntleroy is…unapologetic. They look every bit the deadly creature they are, no affectation of civility or humanity as they wait for their prey, but there is no pretence of lugubrious mystery in them either. Their youth, their eagerness, they’re all on display.

He blinks, shaking himself out of his trance, and hastily steps back. Into the shadows. Out of sight.

…

There’s something thrilling about knowing Claquesous is watching them, but Fauntleroy doesn’t let their attention waver. They are good at scoping out surroundings, they almost always guess right when it comes to the most likely route a person might take. But if their prey deviates they’ll have to move.

There is no need. The man cuts across the playground exactly as they had expected. Even now they can see him approaching, they barely look. All their eyes are picking up is movement. Movement towards them. He will walk practically underneath them. And he smells _delicious_.

They were hungry to start with. Now they’re starving.

…

Fauntleroy’s attack is quick and quiet, but violent. One moment the man is walking, paying ruefully little attention to his surroundings, the next he is gagging with a hand at his throat and dropping to his knees. He’s bigger than Faun, and taller, but it makes no difference. Fauntleroy forces his head to the left and with a gleeful greed that Claquesous can feel tug on a mirror image in his mind, they sink their teeth into the right side of his neck.

Their victim’s eyes roll back and the strain on Fauntleroy’s body changes as they no longer have to actively subdue him. Their back arches as they drink deeper, holding the weight of the man up effortlessly, and their eyes half-closed in mindless enjoyment.

Claquesous doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t think.

He stares.

…

They drink and drink and _drink_ and no one stops them. Fauntleroy keep going and going until their head spins and their body sings. Nothing in existence, living or dead, compares to this. Warmth spreads to even the furthest reaches of their body. The more they drink, the better it tastes, the richer the blood slipping down their throat. Their drinking grows greedier, faster, as if their body remembers how this last bit of indulgence was stolen from them. But not this time. No hand presses their shoulder to stop them, no snapping voice calls them to order.

Fauntleroy swallows one final time, spending a single moment suspended in red velvet before their teeth release the flesh that no longer has anything to offer. They let the drained body slip through their grip and tip their head back in drunk indulgence, an involuntary sound of greedy bliss spilling triumphantly from their lips.

…

The thought of stopping them hadn’t even crossed Claquesous’ mind. He had just watched them, them and their insatiable hunger, in something like a mesmerized state, every single sound they made scratching electric down his spine. Only when they straighten up does he start back to attention.

With their lips no longer locked onto the man’s neck the smell of blood suddenly fills the air. A sharp, heavy smell that seems to wrap around Claquesous’ chest and tangle into his ribs, pulling. He doesn’t follow, doesn’t move. His eyes are still fixed on Fauntleroy.

They are standing with their victim at their feet, their face lifted to the dark sky. Their movements are slow and languid and Claquesous knows how they feel. He remembers that sensation and it’s _glorious_. Faun wears their intoxication like a garment and Claquesous is too enchanted by it to remember to look away when they turn.

Because suddenly, Fauntleroy moves, their whole intoxicated attention fixing on Claquesous as they look up at him.

He should have looked away.

Faun’s eyes are bright as stars and the red bloom on their cheeks is nothing short of alive. A living warmth shines off them, their entirely complexion changed. Their fangs glint though the pink sheen of blood on the white and their mouth… Their mouth is red, smirking and bloody, and—

Claquesous only just manages to stop himself, but that was already too late.

Faun’s eyes have already widened in surprise. They saw him move towards him, saw his eyes shift, saw his head tilt. He didn’t mean to do any of that. But he remembers the feeling of their lips on his and he just…

Something is glowing in the red of Fauntleroy’s eyes. Something joyous and barely contained. Something triumphant. They take a sudden step towards him and Claquesous nearly reaches out for them again. They’re beautiful.

“If you’re that hungry-” Faun says, bloody lips nearly curving into a smile. ”You should feed.”

Claquesous stares at them, caught in too much of a struggle with his own horrification at his lack of self-control to fully grasp what exactly they are urging him to do.

Suddenly the faint sound of music played over rather tinny speaker reaches his ear and the smile on Fauntleroy’s face blooms in full.

“Love it when they have a sense of timing,” they grin and before Claquesous can stop them, they’ve darted off in the direction of the sound.

He chases after them without even thinking, completely forgetting about the drained body they’re leaving behind. Catching up with them is easy, but for all the racing of his mind he doesn’t know what to do.

“ _Stop_ ,” he hisses frantically.

They don’t, and Claquesous grabs them by their shirt, dragging them to a halt and hiding them against a wall. The music is close now, a young man is strolling down the street all alone, music blaring on his phone, swaggering like he owns the place.

Claquesous’ eyes flit to Faun’s face and he swallows. They are grinning up at him with blood stained teeth.

“Come on,” they whisper, instinctually moving their head in the direction of the music, even though they are doing nothing to squirm out of his grip. “When’s the last time you hunted?” Their red-tinted eyes stare into his. “When’s the last time you drank anything but bottled rubbish?”

Claquesous shakes his head.

“Don’t you want him?” Faun pushes, they inhale deeply. “He smells good.”

It’s a miracle they can smell anything at all. All Claquesous can smell is them, Faun and the blood on their breath. He still hasn’t let go of them and he doesn’t want to. He wants…he wants…

“How would you do it?”

Claquesous blinks. “What,” he breathes sharply, abruptly letting go of them and turning so his own back is against the wall as well, right beside them.

“How would you get him?” Fauntleroy asks eagerly. “If you were going to…” They glance up. “I would climb up there,” they whisper. “Jump down on him…”

He shakes his head, forcing his mind into thinking of practicalities. “Too big a distance.”

There is a spark of unbridled joy in Fauntleroy’s eyes at his lack of refusal. “How then,” they urge. “What’d you do.” Their eyes shine. “Show me.”

Claquesous stares at them. Show them. God he’s hungry. Yes, he does want to drink. Drink his full fill for once. Fill himself with hot, living blood.

Maybe that will drown out this other craving.

Nearly without making a conscious decision to do so, Claquesous calls on the darkness he has spent almost two centuries learning how to play. Shadows billow out where before there was still the grey light of urban night. Like blotches of black ink spreading out.

Fauntleroy lets out a soft gasp of delight and Claquesous’ eyes dart in their direction for just a second. He can still see them, of course, but the lack of light has turned their vibrant hair grey, their skin pale again. Their lips are still parted in wordless appreciation and Claquesous abruptly turns away from them. He extends a hand and suddenly the slowly approaching darkness moves with engulfing speed.

“What the—” The swaggering footsteps slow down in uncertainty.

Claquesous feels a familiar tickle down his spine at the slight panic in the human’s voice. He hasn’t done this in so, so long.

As the darkness rolls in Faun gasps in delight. Claquesous looks at them and they are moving, reaching out as if they can comb through the darkness with their fingers, feel the shadows on their skin. A shiver goes through Claquesous’ mind. The night has turned pitch black and in the street beside them, the music has switched off.

The first step Claquesous takes is towards Fauntleroy. Then, abruptly, he rushes into the street. Want and hunger are raising screaming voices in his being, and Claquesous indulges the one most familiar to him.

His arms reach out, unseen in the dark, and his feet are wholly soundless. His hand clamps over the young man’s mouth at nearly the same moment as his teeth drive down into his neck from behind.

There isn’t a sound, not a cry, not a struggle, only silence and the sudden, _explosive_ sensation of living liquid flowing into his being. Claquesous hadn’t thought it was possible to forget what this tasted like. But evidently he had. It’s like feeding for the first time.

He can feel the frantic heartbeat working in his favour, the human body fighting while the mind slips away, and he drinks without slowing down. All the world is hot and crimson and feelings he hasn’t had in over a century wash over him in a multitude. Reality consists of nothing but him and the creature unwillingly stilling his hunger. And then he opens his eyes.

Fauntleroy is standing right in front of him, draped in his own darkness, with their eyes fixed on him like a shining light. Their eyes find his and Claquesous watches them watching him, never ceasing to drink, but slowly taking the expressions on their face that he can barely decipher right now. Because they are watching him with what looks like unbridled joy.

The blood still flows and Claquesous’ eyes close again, he drinks faster, greedier, drowning the want in him in liquid life and willing it dead. He _will_ control this. Even if he has to drink the world dry.

Claquesous only stops when there’s nothing left to take. The lifeless body slumps to the pavement and Claquesous’ head spins. He’s _drunk_. Every inch of his body is flooded with satiated gluttony. He hasn’t felt this good, this strong, this whole, in over a hundred years.

And there is Faun.

There is Faun, looking at him with a mix of endless admiration and affection that he is finally able to recognize.

Claquesous doesn’t realise what he’s doing until it’s too late. His hands are in Faun’s hair, his mouth pressed hungrily against theirs, all the want in him begging them for more. He can still taste the blood, but he can taste them most of all. And Fauntleroy is kissing him back. Their body pressed against him in joyful acquiesce.

He wants this. He _wants_ this. He wants to taste their mouth, kiss their neck, break their skin—

Sous lets go with a start. Clenching his teeth and staggering back. _No_.

Fauntleroy’s eyes open with a flash, fixing on him intently.

“I’m—” He can’t get the word ‘sorry’ across his lips. He can still taste them, smell them, they’ll be clinging to him for _nights_.

He takes a forceful step back, but Faun chases after him. The triumph from before is back and this time it’s firmer, brighter. Wild lights flicker in their darkened eyes and Claquesous stares at them, shocked and spellbound.

“Do that again,” they breathe and it’s not quite an order, but it’s not a request either.

Claquesous is used to fighting his body. He started training for that the first time he realised he was no longer deciding to kill, but compelled to. He couldn’t allow that. He _didn’t_ allow that. His own strength of will trumped everything. His Sire had control over him, he killed his sire. The thrill of hunting made him weak, he stopped hunting. The call of living blood drove him beyond his control, he stopped drinking it.

Even now, with that same hot blood _burning_ in his body, he can ignore it’s cries, drag his own desires down and beat them into submission.

But this time he’s not fighting his body. He’s fighting all of him, and Fauntleroy’s eyes are black and lit up like a starry sky.

For a single frozen moment Claquesous forgets the past two centuries of his life and he swears he can feel his heart beating out of control high in his chest.

And then his lips are on Faun’s again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features my kind of "vampire sex", which doesn't include a lot of nudity is mostly bloody making out, but just in case you read anything that starts making you uncomfortable, search for the line "Time gets away from him". From that point on it should be safe!

Claquesous opens his eyes, mildly confused at the absence of darkness. Why would he have fallen asleep with the lights on? Dim as they are, he never leaves them on. The smell of dried blood doesn’t reach his consciousness until a moment later, when he sees Fauntleroy beside him. Oh—

He sits up, careful not to stir too much for fear of waking them. They’re in the same, near-complete state of undress as him and both the sheets of the bed and their clothes, crumpled up above their pillows, are wastefully stained with blood. What’s more, so is Faun’s skin.

Something forces him to move – out of the bed, away from them – years of self-restraint and discipline steering his limbs, but he can’t look away. He remembers the way Faun looked last night, remembers how they looked _at_ him. With their mouth smeared red and their eyes black with want, just before he broke down and kissed them.

And now they’re sleeping in his bed.

Claquesous stares down at them. At the spill of their curls on his pillow, at the curve of their back. Faun sleeps curled up on their side, as if they’re still alive. Deep asleep, still and lifeless, they put in him in mind of a small animal burrowed away for the winter. There’s a dried smear of blood going down from their neck past their shoulder, almost onto their back. He swallows. On their side and hip he can just see some smudges that must have been left by his own fingers.

It barely seems real.

He’s still staring, still frozen, when there’s suddenly the murmur of Faun’s voice.

“I’m awake.”

Claquesous blinks, startled out of his barely formed thoughts. “Why are you pretending to sleep?”

“I’m not. I’m just lying.” They roll over onto their back, looking at him from behind slightly faded purple locks. “I like it here.”

He doesn’t speak, trying to sort through the vague concerns tugging at his mind despite the distraction of their attention.

“Has it been so long you don’t remember not wanting to get out of bed?”

In his absent-mindedness he nearly frowns at them. “Has what—”

“Being alive,” they interrupt amusedly. Fauntleroy spreads out across the bed, one bare leg appearing from underneath the covers. “I miss dreaming…”

“I barely remember,” he says honestly. He’s still trying to stop staring at them.

Last morning he was hazy with bloodlust, doing whatever they wanted of him simply because it was what he wanted too, right now everything is muted. Claquesous can feel the strength of an excess of blood still coursing through him, he can feel his body adjusting back to what used to be his everyday, something dark in the background purring like a satiated animal. But his mind is clouded over, desaturated as if by choice, by reflex. Simple self-preservation. Except he doesn’t want that anymore. This isn’t a moment that should be muted. He doesn’t want it to be.

In a vague attempt to do something about it, he sits back down on the edge of the bed, reaching out for Fauntleroy slowly. They don’t move away, so he brushes carefully past a smudge on their shoulder.

“I made a mess of you.”

Faun makes a gratified sound, pleased and unconcerned.

“You were right,” they murmur, their expression almost coy. “It doesn’t hurt.”

And just like that, the reality of what he’s doing digs claws in his back. No one has drunk from them since they lost their life. They’re so young. So wild. Bizarro’s fledgling of all people. He should have _kept his hands off them_.

A hand gently closes around his.

Claquesous bows his head, allowing Faun to pull themself upright on his arm, but resisting their wordless invitation to join them again. When he won’t give in to them, they crawl towards the edge of the bed, as close to him as they can get.

“Sous?”

“Yes…” he breathes. He didn’t mean for any of this to happen. He didn’t mean to want them like this. He only wanted to prevent having to do without them.

Faun stays silent, looking at him curiously, and in his uncertainty he sits down on the edge of the bed. They immediately drape themselves around his shoulders from behind, nuzzling against the side of his neck. No self-doubt, no doubt of _him_. Not in them.

He needs to have the feelings back. He was so sure last night, all through the morning. All through the haze of his mind.

Suddenly Fauntleroy’s grip on him loosens. They’re moving away from him and he feels a pang of distress, however faint, before they are hastily walking past him, their attention fixed on something on his desk.

Claquesous is still blinking at the sight of them, barely dressed and flitting through his room, when they let out a strange, gasping noise. They snatch something off a neat pile stack of papers and whirl around, holding it out to him like they expect the object to vanish if they don’t hold it tight enough.

“…you bought a phone?” they stammer.

Right, the phone. That had been an impulsive decision. Silly. A token of sorts. Even his state of mind when deciding that seems immeasurably removed from him. He clears his throat. “Yes, I thought you might—”

They’ve thrown themselves at him before he can even finish the sentence. He catches them, abandoning his words mid speech. Fauntleroy’s entire face seems lit up with the memory of sunshine.

“ _You did!_ ” they cry and then their lips are on his.

They kiss, wildly, until Faun’s lips leave his and Claquesous feels their fangs sink into his neck. They’ve bitten him so many times, but this is different. He fed them last night, but they did not bite him. They’ve never bitten him like this.

He clutches Fauntleroy close, his fingers digging in their back. With every draught they pull out of him they drag the feelings that were so alive in him last morning back up. All of them, until they are singing in his body and mind alike. Singing and screaming for more.

With a gasp Faun pulls back, blinking against the strenght of their own passion. “Sorry,” they pant, their mouth wet. “I should have asked—”

Claquesous drags them back in and kisses his own blood off their lips.

They hum eagerly, still straddling his lap for as long the kiss lasts, but immediately struggling out of his grip when he breaks away. They slide off him, crawling further back onto the bed, wordlessly urging him to chase them. He’s already moving after them, a grin gracing his bloody mouth. His churning thoughts are silent. He wants Faun and only them.

He kisses them again, more slowly this time. It’s less frantic, but deeply and purposefully, and Faun wordlessly asks for more and more until they’re writhing underneath him. When he tries to pull away to ask what they want, Faun’s hand grabs in his hair, trying to prevent him from moving at all.

A low chuckle hums in Claquesous’ chest and Fauntleroy twists to bare their throat for him, trying to push up off the matrass and drag him closer at the same time.

“Please?” they say breathlessly, barely having bothered to breathe enough to speak. “Like you did last morning…”

Claquesous doesn’t even hear his own reply, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever words just escaped him are making Faun’s eyes light up with laughing happiness as he gently forces them back down onto the matrass. He hangs over them, staring down on them for a moment, while they look up at him with wide, elated eyes. Then he moves, one hands stroking through their hair, pulling their head to the side, and the other lacing his fingers through theirs as his teeth sink into their exposed neck.

Faun keens as he bites down and Claquesous feels weak without a loss of control. He presses closer and they wrap their legs around him eagerly. They grab on to him tighter when he releases the pressure of his teeth and he groans, both for the hand clawing into his hair and their blood, sweet and all-embracing, suddenly filling his mouth.

Drinking from Fauntleroy is drinking in the sound of their laughter, the hiss of their stubbornness, their wild, unrestrained emotion. It must be a delusion of his addled mind, but he can _taste_ their passion. For the night, for the hunt, for existence, for _him_.

Claquesous pulls away just enough to see Faun’s skin smeared with blood. He laps at the wound slowly, kissing their skin until his lips are stained with the taste of them.

They sigh blissfully, the hand in his hair tugging more and more insistently, urging him to let them feel his fangs again. Instead he wrestles free, keeping Faun on their back and slowly crawling over them, leaving blood-stained kisses down their torso.

“You taste more alive than anyone still living,” he breathes hotly.

Faun squirms and coos, nearly gasping out loud when he brushes his fingers down the soft curve of their left side. “Better-” There’s a gleeful smile hidden in their voice. “Better than bottled?”

“Better than _anything_ ,” he growls. He presses a kiss to their waist, in the soft incline between their hip and their ribcage, and bites. Fauntleroy’s back arches and Claquesous presses a steadying hand flat against their chest. He can’t see their face like this. And the frantic noises spilling from their mouth are just too far away for his liking, but he’s wanted to taste more of their body ever since they—

Faun whines and he stops drinking, raising his head with a gluttonous gasp. He drank too fast, that’s no way to treat a lover.

_Lover…_

Fauntleroy is sprawled out on his unmade bed, moaning slightly as the wound he left on them heals. They grab at him eagerly, opening their mouth without baring their teeth, wordlessly begging for a kiss. Claquesous moves up to bring their faces level, brushing the brightly coloured curls away from their face. Fauntleroy looks lovelier than they have ever done, their arms already wrapping possessively around him. They don’t look human, nothing human about them, but they look _so_ alive.

Claquesous bites down hard, driving his fangs into his bottom lip, and presses his mouth roughly on Faun’s, swallowing their eager whining in a bloody kiss.

 

Time gets away from him and by the time Claquesous finds himself capable of calm, coherent thought again, he is stretched out on his back with Fauntleroy lying against him. Their head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, one arm reaching over his chest and their legs tangled up with his. The smell of blood still hangs around them, covering them the same as the sheets do. The dullness, the muted lack of feelings, has gone. He is continually forgetting to breathe, but his whole body is alive to the sensations it’s still recovering from, he’s not even drowsy.

When he looks down at their face, Fauntleroy’s eyes aren’t closed either. They meet his gaze and their speckled eyes are flooded with contentment.

Claquesous looks at them for a very long moment, silently, unwilling to give words to this foreign kind of happiness.

This was a choice, a decision there is no going back on, and he made it. He just realigned his entire existence, no turning back.

And he doesn’t care.

…

There is something different about the way he’s lying beside them, even compared to last night, Fauntleroy can feel it. Part of this feels more like how they were before. Before he left and they snapped. But better, closer. Their body and mind seem to be humming in unison and they never ever want to move from this spot. They fit against Sous flawlessly. Like they belong.

Eventually though, their thoughts grow too loud to be quiet any longer. They tilt their head until they can look up at Claquesous and his dark eyes flit to theirs questioningly. He looks different, so different, from how they’re used to him looking. The tint of his skin is warmer, his long hair seems just a bit glossier, his lips fuller, his eyes darker. And right now there is such an ease spread throughout his whole demeanour…

Fauntleroy is grinning before they realise it. They don’t believe in checking their happiness.

“What?” Claquesous asks, his amused voice just a little deeper than usual.

Where do they even begin? Instead of even trying, they just say the first thing that manages to make itself heard in the happy crowd of joyful thoughts in their head. “I want your phone.”

Sous looks surprised. “What for?”

“Just give it to me,” they coax, pressing an impulsive kiss to the side of his neck. “Trust me.”

He laughs softly, and Fauntleroy can feel the vibrations of his chest against their own. It makes them want to kick their feet for joy, but at least one of them is currently tucked under Sous’ leg, so they settle for squeezing him around his waist.

“I think it’s on the floor,” he snorts. “But you’ll to have to let go of me if you want me to get it.”

They grumble slightly, still refusing the move, but allowing Claquesous to disentangle himself. He leans halfway off the bed, reaching around, and as soon as he rolls back onto the mattress they pull him against them again.

“Gimme.” They pluck the phone out of his hand.

“What are you doing?” Sous asks, putting his head down close to theirs as they hold the phone up in front of their face.

“Putting my number in,” they grin. “And getting you some apps.”

He exhales in a sound of resignation, voicing no protest, but not really watching what they’re doing. Fauntleroy grins, opening the camera and tilting their head towards Sous’.

“Sous, look.”

He glances up, and Fauntleroy feels that spark of joy dance uncontrollably in their chest as they see both their faces come into focus on the screen. Claquesous seems kind of mesmerized by it, old ones always are by the new technology that actually manages to capture their faces. Fauntleroy takes the picture before he can move and immediately send it to themself.

Claquesous clicks his tongue. “Should we be doing that? Photos with our fangs out?”

Fauntleroy really couldn’t care less. They put the phone aside and press closer to him. “I like your fangs,” they tease. They can _say_ that now.

Sous breathes something that sounds like French, but was probably taken out of the dictionary ages ago, and presses a kiss on their lips.

It tastes like utter triumph.

.

By the time Fauntleroy has washed all the blood off their skin and rinsed out their hair, their feelings are slightly less explosive. They’re not less present though, and having the smell of Claquesous’ shampoo clinging to their hair is making them giddy.

Their clothes aren’t too bloody, only a bit on the front of their shirt collar. Fauntleroy feels a small jolt somewhere in their stomach when they remember how quickly it was disposed of last morning. Still, they’re wearable still, and once they’re cleaned, dried off and dressed, Fauntleroy feels more than presentable enough to walk home.

Claquesous has been watching them ever since they emerged half-dressed from the shower, with a sort of pleased thoughtfulness in his eyes.

They don’t mind, he can look at them all he wants. As long as they get to do the same.

He walks them downstairs, and the house is very quiet. Fauntleroy is glad of it. They don’t need Babet’s calculating looks or Montparnasse’s jokes. This can just be theirs for a while longer.

“No need to walk you home then?” Claquesous asks again.

Fauntleroy smiles. “Not unless you want to talk to Bizarro already…”

His expression grows a little strained and they laugh, loudly and carelessly.

“I will talk to her later,” they promise. Not yet though. Not tonight maybe, they want to float on this a little longer. They draw a little closer, looking up at him. “Can I kiss you goodbye?”

For a moment Claquesous gives them one of his unreadable looks, then he reaches out invitingly. Fauntleroy hurries towards him and pushes themselves up on their toes to kiss him. He leans down to meet them, one hand lightly toughing the small of their back while their fingers stop just shy of grabbing onto his shirt.

They pull away quickly, too quickly, but Claquesous is nearly smiling at them.

“À bientôt,” he murmurs.

Fauntleroy beams at him, fangs and all, and they walk home with the distinct feelings that the shadows are curling in their direction wherever they go.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for one moment of self-harm to wrist for drinking purposes.

After the first year or so Bizarro always tried to encourage Faun’s independence. She does not check up on them, but to tell the truth, she has never had the need to. This time in Paris is the first time Fauntleroy has developed a tendency to just wander off, perhaps not even come home for a day. A very healthy development, she thinks, but it’s still something to get used to.

This time they didn’t even text, so it’s extra pleasing to hear the sound of their key in the lock.

“Is that my lastachka back at last?” she calls out, lowering her book.

Faun darts through the door, looking so pleased and positively glowing that they put Bizarro in mind of a newly bloomed rose. “Well,” she laughs. “Someone had a good hunt.”

“The best,” they beam and they quickly dart over to kiss her on the cheek.

Bizarro’s smile falters as they cross the room. Fauntleroy smells…they smell…

She nearly clenches her teeth when Faun gives her their greeting peck on the cheek. Blood. Blood and thoroughly scrubbed skin. Freshly washed hair. …Claquesous.

“I’m gonna change, okay?” Fauntleroy says cheerfully and Bizarro swallows.

She doesn’t think she has ever seen them quite this happy. This is not like the other times. Claquesous’ scent has never clung to them like this. She looks up into their eyes. There is no red glint of hunger to be detected, but they are large and dark and gleaming. _Adoring_.

Bizarro sits up. “Yes, darling,” she says, centuries of practice making her voice come out light and pleasant in complete contrast with her voice. “You go change, take your time. I was just about to go out for a bit.”

“Okay,” Faun says, moving towards the door again. “Will you be back soon?”

“Of course.” Bizarro rises from the sofa. “This shouldn’t take long.”

…

Claquesous knows this house well, he has lived there for twenty-five years now. He knows what it sounds like when it’s empty.

It’s not empty anymore.

Bizarro is standing in the doorway to the living room, wrapped in mink and with her blue eyes nothing short of glacial.

He doesn’t know how she got in and he doesn’t ask, but he rises from his seat with as cautious a movement as he would when confronted with a feral animal. Bizarro is staring at him, breathing deeply but quietly, and he knows she is taking in his scent. Claquesous hasn’t been scared in a very long time and he won’t allow the feeling to take hold of him now. Every single one of his senses is focussed on her, however, and underneath her icy exterior he can almost see the fury of her animal nature. Faun’s wildness did not come out of nowhere, Bizarro works very hard to be what she is.

“Bizarro,” he says, finally, looking at her intently.

“Claquesous…” she breathes, slowly stepping into the room.

He doesn’t move, staring her down. She doesn’t budge.

Her hands, nails like perfectly manicured claws, suddenly move forward and Claquesous nearly draws back. But she’s not grabbing at him.

“I hope you’re still hungry—” Her voice is low with a glowering heat that does not match her face. “—because you will drink from me until you are _begging_ me to let you explain yourself.”

There are not many situations in which Claquesous has been forced to acknowledge that Bizarro has a good few decades of unlife on him, but this is one of them. The force radiating from her is already tangible and her blood is stronger than his. Under direct influence of it he won’t be able to stand up to her will at all.

No one has had that amount of power over him since his sire.

He’s not letting that happen.

“I will explain myself of my own free will,” he says firmly. Whatever Bizarro wants to know, he will tell her. She has not come her to harm him, yet, or to tell him to stay away from Faun. Because that is out of the question too.

“You could try,” Bizarro hisses. “And I would not believe a _single_ word you said.” The sharp edge of her right thumb’s nail clashes across her wrist, making it bleed dark crimson. “ _Drink_.”

Claquesous doubts, even now, if she would try and force this on him. He likes to think she wouldn’t be able to. Bizarro is strong, yes, old, but her upbringing has been more indolent than his. He has just drunk his fill for the first time in a century, even if he would not be able to restrain her, he _would_ be able to fight her off.

But _she_ would be able to make his life hell. Fauntleroy loves her, like a parent, truly, without her approval they stand very little chance of making this work. And no chance of doing it without hurting Faun.

There is just a flash of shock on Bizarro’s face when he grabs her wrist and presses it to his mouth.

He drinks forcefully, fighting down the snarling aversion in his mind. Bizarro is beautiful, and he has known her for a long time. Claquesous has wondered about the taste of her blood with greedy, albeit idle curiosity, but that was long ago, and in this moment she tastes sour to him. He keeps drinking, growling wordlessly when he feels her other hand nearly coming to rest on the back of his neck. He will not be treated like an unwilling fledgling.

As soon Bizarro moves her arm, he lets go, swallowing hard and refusing to give in to the sickness he feels shivering in his core. He can just about prevent himself from falling to his knees, taking a staggering step back.

“Look at me.”

His head snaps up at the first sound of her command and Claquesous’ body convulses with hatred. Bizarro is staring at him with grim fascination on her hitherto flawless face. There are some dark lines on it now, red bleeding through the blue of her eyes.

“Ask you damn questions,” he growls, walking further away from her, but too weak to avert his eyes.

She follows him, with the stalking steps of a predator instead of the dainty ones of a lady. “ _What did you do to Fauntleroy—_ ”

“I did not force them.” His voice is shaking. “I did not overfeed them. We both wanted—”

“You mixed with them.” Bizarro’s eyes are wide, nearly frantic.

He nods, managing a wry smile. “Can’t you smell them on me?”

Her face contorts. “So you’ve had a taste, _and now what?_ ”

“That’s up to them,” he breathes. He’s well aware that Fauntleroy’s life with Bizarro is transient, and he hasn’t left Paris for any substantial period of time since the 1910’s, but he cannot think about that now. He doesn’t want to do without Faun. Not anymore. Not now he knows.

“You don’t _stay_ with people, Claquesous,” she spits. “You wait for them to _leave_.”

“They’re different.” His voice sounds desperate and he hates it.

Bizarro sneers. “But _you’re_ not.”

He shakes his head in denial, caught between swearing at her and throwing up.

Her expression is cruel, but suddenly she smiles sharply. “Oh no, you’re right. You have one exception.” The fury on her face flickers brighter for a second and Claquesous can feel his ribcage constrict. “What about you and Montparnasse,” she demands.

“We’re…we’re kindred,” he gags. Spots of red are dancing in front of his eyes. This would be less painful if he didn’t fight it, but he can’t not fight it.

“That _wasn’t_ what I asked,” Bizarro snaps. “Do you still mix with him.”

Claquesous forces his head to tilt back again. “Not for decades,” he groans.

Bizarro’s mouth is a sharp, suspicious line. What does she think, that he would let Faun be in competition with Parnasse?

Her teeth bare in an insincere smile. “So you don’t mind if I try to get a bite of that?”

A feeling almost like laughter manages to prick through the pain. “Good luck,” he pants. “He hasn’t been in the mood for women in a century or so.”

Her eyes are ice and steel. “I’m sure I could make a valiant effort.”

“Be my guest.” It is exhausting to fight. It feels like being choked from the inside out, like being under water and needing to breathe again. His feet stumble and he leans against the nearest piece of furniture, hissing through his teeth. For a long time there is silence, until he manages to focus glaring eyes on Bizarro’s still sneering face.

She stares down on him, towering taller than she’s ever been. Finally, she speaks. “You want Faun?”

He takes in a steadying breath and attempts to stand upright. “Yes.”

The blue eyes spark. “ _My_ Faun.”

Black anger twists in his gut. “They’re not yours.”

Bizarro’s red-speckled eyes fill with disdain. “I _made_ them. They’re mine. I could drink them dry if I so wished—”

Claquesous does not remember moving, can’t recall tearing through Bizarro’s control over him, but he feels his nails clawing into Bizarro’s neck. He stops, freezing with his still snarling face close to theirs, her back pressed violently against the wall. Her eyes are wide in an expression of surprise, with just a hint of pain, but she has not even flinched. Claquesous lets go of her, feeling ill, and there’s just the faintest hint of an actual smile on Bizarro’s face. The marks his nails left on her skin are already healing.

“Impressive.”

He doesn’t answer. She had been lying, of course she had, every rational part of his mind would have known it. But all of his higher cognitive powers had been employed trying to keep control of his own will and consciousness in defiance of the pull of her blood. Whatever had just attacked her had had _nothing_ to do with rationality.

The violent, strangling feeling fades and when he looks up again, Bizarro is looking at him with an incomprehensibly emotional expression. “Well, if that’s how it is.”

It feels exposed, disgusting, to have betrayed himself so severely, but it is too much of a relief to be free again, too much of a relief to see Bizarro backing down, for his anger to take the upper hand.

“If you wanted to know if I’d kill you, you could have just asked that,” he says, covering up his unbalanced feelings with a sneer.

Her eyes spark. “And _you_ could have just told me you’d fallen in—” She shuts her mouth in response to the frantic look in his eyes, smiling measuredly. “Fine, I’ll hush.” She looks a little unsteady on her feet suddenly, choosing to slowly sink down in a seat. “If you hurt them,” she says softly. “I will drain you and leave your bloodless corpse for the rats.”

Claquesous looks down on her, still grappling with the slumbering desire to obey her hiding in his blood. “You threaten to take them from me again and I will tear your throat out.”

She smiles. Her left wrist is still stained with blood, but completely healed. She looks pale though, no bloody blush to grace her marble cheeks. She made him drink a lot. Too much perhaps.

As soon as she looks at him he feels a terrible clash between attraction and violent rebellion and Claquesous takes a step back.

“You’ve never experienced blood thrall before, have you?” she smiles weakly.

Not since my Sire, no.” He hadn’t imagined it to be quite so strong. He sits down, reluctantly. “I didn’t…I didn’t share with Faun to make them…” He cuts himself off, frowning at nothing.

“I know you didn’t,” Bizarro replies lightly. “And besides, you couldn’t have even if you tried. I feed them regularly, and enough to drown out your blood I should think.”

Claquesous glances at her. So she did know. “I didn’t know you shared with them so regularly,” he says stiffly.

“Mostly to keep them from draining the whole town,” she huffs fondly. “They do seem endlessly hungry, don’t they.”

His expression is clearly not as guarded as he meant it to be, because she grimaces.

“Ah, so you _like_ that about them, do you?” She shakes her head. “Serves me right for leaving them out of my sight.” The next look she gives him is almost fond. “They run away into the dark.”

Claquesous doesn’t smile, but he gets to his feet. “You want a drink?”

“Please,” Bizarro sighs hungrily.

Claquesous takes a couple of swigs himself, before he returns from Barbet’s laboratory storage, washing the taste of Bizarro’s blood from his mouth. When he offers her the bottle and a glass he feels more in control of himself once more. The threat of losing it is still there, but the frantic fight has left his limbs.

Bizarro drinks eagerly and hungrily at first, only stopping to taste her meal when she’s already halfway through. “Do you tell Babet what to get?” she asks curiously.

He shakes his head.

“Such good taste for a human,” she hums in admiration.

Claquesous has a disparaging reply to that, but there is suddenly a loud chime of music that abruptly diverts his attention. It’s the new phone, lying on a side table. He frowns, picking it up rather uncertainly. He knows how they work, he just never bothered to actually learn how to use them. When the screen lights up there’s a message from Faun. He is just able to see a string of pink hearts before Bizarro burst out laughing.

“You got a _phone_ for them,” she gasps. “ _You!_ Oh I needn’t have worried, they have got you _exactly_ where they want you.” She presses an elegant hand to her mouth. “Ah, they grow up so fast.”

Claquesous lets her laugh. She can have her laughter. He'll have Faun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What ended up on the cutting room floor: 
> 
> "You agreed to drink yourself submissive to her? For _me_?"  
> “Allowed more than agreed I think.”  
> Faun puts their head against his shoulder. “My blood isn’t strong like hers… Do you think it could drown her out?”  
> “I don’t know,” he smiles.  
> They grin. “Do you want to try?”


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a proper epilogue, set quite some time later. But Azura threw some dialogue and ideas at me that stuck and here we are~

For once in their life Fauntleroy’s thoughts are slow and deep enough that they do not fidget. They are sitting so still they might well be taken for one of the many sculptures that adorn the roof of the Palais Garnier. Those same sculptures hide them from view, or rather, their shadows do, many and varied in shape and shade, untouched by the artificial lights that illuminate the opera house’s façade. They are too lost in thought to really hear the shreds of music drifting through the air, too absorbed even to notice the shift in the atmosphere. But they do notice the shadows.

They were sharp and stark, uneven in their distribution. Now they are growing darker, blending together, slowly thickening until their edges are velvet and deeper than black.

Fauntleroy smiles, sitting up slightly, and as soon as they do the shadows seem to wrap around them, draping down from their shoulders in a way that carries the illusion of weight with them. Almost as if they could lean into them and be caught in nothing but softness. For a moment, Fauntleroy’s eyes blink shut.

A hand touches the small of their back and they look beside them with a smile, their eyes raising to Claquesous’ face. He’s as quiet as the night itself, feet as velvety soft as the darkness.

“Did I make you wait long?”

They shake their head, leaning in to him in a nearly pushing way until he catches on to what they want and leans back. Fauntleroy nestles against his side, the both of them lying on their backs on the roof now. In their happy silence Fauntleroy finally has attention to spare for the music that gently bleeds into the night from the opera house below.

“Which one is this?” they ask, turning their head just to mutter the words against Sous’ neck.

He listens for a thoughtful moment. “Tosca,” he replies finally and Fauntleroy grins into the dark. Of course he actually knew.

They lace their fingers through his where their hands are resting between them. That is something they can do now, something they no longer need to ask permission for.

There is a soft clink of metal on stone and Fauntleroy remembers their new bracelet. Something of a not-quite-an-apology present from Bizarro. In return for threatening their… Fauntleroy swallows.

“Sous?”

“Mm.”

The sickening flutter of nerves, Fauntleroy has found, is one of the few sensations that remains completely unchanged in undeath. “…are you my boyfriend?”

There is a beat of complete silence. Even the music is absent.

“Am I what?”

That is not the response they were hoping for. Fauntleroy sits up, turning to look at him in the dark. They can just see his blank face.

“Bizarro said…” They smile shyly, shaking their head. Their hand is still wrapped around Sous’ and they know they don’t have to let go. “I’d just like to know.”

Claquesous sits up as well, looking at them with a strange sort of caution on his face. Perhaps they aren’t explaining themselves well. They don’t want him to think they’re demanding anything. They just need to know.

“I’m only asking,” they say softly. “If Biz calls you my boyfriend again, should I correct her?”

Claquesous looks at them with something like hesitation in his demeanour. He looks almost doubtful. “I don’t much mind what people call me,” he says finally.

Fauntleroy bites their lip. “I mind, though,” they press. “It matters. I’d like to know what I am to you.” That’s all they’ve ever wanted to know.

Claquesous listens to them in silence, his expression drifting from doubt to concern now. He doesn’t want to hurt them, they _know_ he doesn’t, but it doesn’t look like he knows what to answer either.

Fauntleroy stands their ground. “It’s okay if you don’t want to be partners.” Unlife is long, they are young, and Sous has already let them so close to him so fast… “I would just like to know what you do want.”

Claquesous looks at them. “I…”

He hesitates, and Fauntleroy is not sure they’ve ever heard him hesitate like that.

“I would like to not have to exist without you.”

Fauntleroy blinks.

“I don’t know what to call that,” he says, raw honesty taking the place of composure on his face. “And I don’t care. As long as I don’t have to compete with others to be in your life.” He looks at them gravely. “Is that an answer?”

Their arms are already wrapping around his neck, unintelligible noises of affection spilling from their lips. The shadows billow and swirl when they kiss him, drowning out every spec of light. Fauntleroy can see nothing but the glint of his eyes when they pull away.

“I _love_ you,” they breathe and, wonderfully, they do not even need an answer.

They get one anyway, two hands buried in their hair and another, ecstatic kiss pressed to their lips. Wrapped in his arms and his darkness, Fauntleroy finds themself on Claquesous’ lap, their knees straddling his legs, their fingers grabbing at his shoulders.

They kiss until blood is mixing on their tongues and Fauntleroy feels their head spin. With a joyous shudder they break away and instantly the shadows part, letting through the silver moonlight. Fauntleroy grins, silver glinting on their fangs, and their eyes meet Claquesous’ as he looks up at them with ruby speckled eyes. They should not have doubted him. There never was a creature of the night so loved as they. And around them, all around them, the hearts of Paris beat, full of life and blood.

Fauntleroy slants their head, coaxing even before they’ve spoken the words. “You hungry?”

Slowly Claquesous’ fanged grin grows until it matches their own. “Starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they terrorized mankind happily ever after ❤︎
> 
> Thank you all for reading, your support of our tiny ship warms my heart~


End file.
